The Long Hours of the Night
by Stormcrown201
Summary: The fight against Danarius in the Hanged Man does not go entirely the way Fenris had hoped it would. Or, what happens when a magister actually bothers to use all of the spells at his disposal.
1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:** A quick note before we begin: I refer to Varania as being dark-haired and only slightly paler than Fenris because I have a mod that alters her appearance to be somewhat more in line with his. Also, given the subject matter, there's inevitably going to be references to Fenris' history under Danarius. Proceed with caution, but otherwise, please leave a review, and kudos if you liked it!

* * *

It's late morning when Artur arrives at his door, accompanied by Aveline and Sebastian. Fenris emerges from his room at the sound of their entrance, and at the top of the stairs, he looks down at Artur, who calls up to him, "My business is done. Are you ready to go?"

So it's time. Artur's previous business has kept them from going to the Hanged Man to seek out Varania for the past couple of days, and while that has given Fenris time to steel himself and think about what he will say, it's also put him on edge. As much as whatever's coming makes his insides twist and coil, so too does a good part of him just want it to be over with. He's not sure how much longer he can wait in suspense.

"Half a minute," he calls back, and he returns to his room, puts on his breastplate and his gauntlets, grabs his maul, and slings it over his back. Fenris then takes a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes and trying to let the onrush of air calm him and untwist his insides. It's only partially successful, but as he heads out of his room again and down the stairs to join his companions, he keeps trying. "Let's go," he says, and they leave without further preamble.

The walk down to Lowtown is mostly silent, and Fenris is too preoccupied to engage in what little talk there is. He veers between timorous excitement and the paranoia that has so dominated him for the past decade. If this isn't a trap, if his sister is at the Hanged Man, then perhaps he can finally have a name of his own again, a true sense of personhood outside of Danarius, a family, a past and so much more that he can't yet name. If this is a trap, then he'll gain nothing but more crushed hopes and expectations. The latter is what he's used to, but after having spent so long living for himself, even despite the shadow of Danarius always looming over him, Fenris finds that he wants the former more.

Not what he's used to, but it's what's better for him, and he deserves better, doesn't he? The words, when Fenris thinks them, sound suspiciously like Artur's voice, and his cheeks flush red for a moment. He would wonder how that man came to personify his freedom and all the good things that have come with it, but enough, they are in Lowtown now, and the Hanged Man is almost in sight. Fenris takes another deep breath.

Artur, keeping pace with him, notices. "I'm sure it'll be fine," he says. "Siblings are wonderful things to have."

Fenris makes a sound that almost resembles a snort. "Says the man who took how many years to reconcile with his brother?"

But Artur only chuckles. "Carver's a special case, of course," he says, "but it was worth it. Besides, even in the old days, it wasn't all bad. You'll see. It'll be fine."

"I wish I shared your optimism," Fenris says, and Artur gives him what must be the most encouraging look he can muster. As ever, it's all in his eyes and in other such miniscule things as the way he inclines his head ever so slightly towards Fenris; the facial mask and Artur's loose, form-concealing robes prevent anyone from truly reading his face and body language. Luckily, his eyes are oversized and expressive, as if to compensate for Artur's choice of dress, and Fenris can see what the man is trying to say in them. He nods, then takes the lead. They reach the door of the Hanged Man, he pushes it open, and they step inside. Fenris shuts it in silence, while his stomach turns over in his chest. He takes still another deep breath, but this time, its success is limited.

They've only just got inside, but already, Fenris notices something wrong. Not only is the Hanged Man deserted—it may be late morning, but there should be at least a few people in here—but there's something _off_ in the atmosphere. There's a sickliness, a palpable clamminess about the place, something that sets his teeth on edge; the sensation washes against his markings and through them, sends a bolt of pain down his spine and to the tips of his toes. Fenris grimaces, tries to tell himself that he's just nervous, but he can see from the way Artur's brow furrows that he's sensed something wrong as well. Maybe this was—

"Hawke," he hisses. "Should we—?"

"Only if you want to," Artur says. "But I can see her over there." He inclines his head toward one of the tables, and Fenris turns his head to see the current, lone occupant of the Hanged Man. An elven woman, black-haired, slightly paler than he is but not by much. His stomach turns over again, and he's not sure if it's because of fear or something like joy.

Regardless, recklessness wins out over sanity. "No. I can't leave it like this. I have to know," he says, and he steels himself again.

Artur nods. "We'll keep an eye out for you. Hopefully all this is just somebody's atrocious cooking," he says, with his usual glib humour—although it sounds rather more forced than normal—and Fenris snorts. He wouldn't have thought mere cooking could cause what he just felt in his markings, but this _is_ the Hanged Man. One more deep breath, and as all the words that he'd planned to say fly out of his head, he walks forward, approaches his sister.

"It really is you," she says. A slight accent, but distinctly Ventusian, and there's no real joy there, either—not that he supposes there should be. There's only… only what? Fenris finds it hard to name. He's not even sure if there's anything there at all.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and only for a moment. Her shoulders are squared and hunched, her arms are rigid, and on the table, her hands have curled into fists. Perhaps she senses the wrongness in the atmosphere as well, or maybe she's just as confused and lost as she is. Fenris hopes that he can make it worth her while. It would be such a waste for her to have come all this way only to find—what, exactly? He doesn't quite know.

But the question disappears in the echo that passes through his head. A warm summer's day, playing in what looks like the courtyard of an estate he can't identify, under the watchful gaze of a woman who works a spinning wheel… their mother? _Kaffas_, it's so vague. But it's more than he used to have.

"Varania? I… I remember you. We played in our master's courtyard while Mother worked. You called me…"

She stands up, still not looking at him. Standing, Fenris can see just how tense she is, how her every limb is rigid, almost fixed into place, how her hands remain balled into fists. "Leto. That's your name," she says, and just for a moment, Fenris is distracted.

Leto, then. Not quite the name he'd expected, though he's not sure _what_ name he expected. _An old name. Summer. He who is always happy._ Strangely appropriate, or inappropriate depending on how you look at it, given everything that's happened to him. He doesn't know what it means to him, but perhaps he could get used to it. His _own_ name, not the title Danarius gave him. It's certainly something, a start, the beginning of him reclaiming what he once was. Something warm stirs in his chest, but then Fenris looks at Varania, sees again the tension in her limbs, and he remembers the sickliness in the atmosphere. Maybe it would be better if they had this conversation elsewhere, in fresher air? She can't be used to pubs like these; the ones in Minrathous are so much cleaner and have much better fare. Perhaps they can speak at Hawke's estate?

"What's wrong?" he asks, and he tries to be gentle. Now that Fenris (Leto?) has heard his name, he _wants_ this, wants it so badly that the rest of his common sense and his fear is going out the window. "Why are you so…?"

He trails off, but at the same moment he does, Artur—almost forgotten about—speaks up. "Alone, _as far as you could tell?_" he hisses, and the fright and horror in his voice come close to bringing Fenris crashing back down to earth as he remembers the last conversation he had with Aveline. "Isn't that _exactly_ what you said? Are you _blind_, Aveline?"

For a long moment, Fenris doesn't comprehend what he's hearing, nor can he. He is stuck in limbo, in the awkward place between realisation and the lack of it, and his head is becoming clouded, his limbs rooted to the spot. His breath comes shakily, unevenly, as he turns his gaze to Artur and Aveline and sees Aveline staring up the stairs, eyes wide. "I…" That is the only word she can get out, and she speaks it with uncharacteristic unsureness, the realisation of a terrible mistake having been made lacing her voice. Fenris freezes.

"Doesn't matter," Artur says. "Fenris, we have to get out of here!" There is real terror in his voice, of a sort that Fenris has only heard on a scant handful of occasions, and that jars Fenris out of the sudden haze in his head. If Artur is so frightened, then that can only mean genuine danger—and given what he's just said…

Fenris understands the barest instant before it happens.

"Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always." Danarius, previously unnoticed, descends the stairs from the upper level of the Hanged Man, flanked by more hunters, and Fenris' bowels turn to water. His eyes widen, and his muscles instinctively tighten as his body prepares to spring into action, but he can't think over the resurgent haze of shock and fear, which having been caught so thoroughly off-guard has only amplified. He should step back, he should draw his weapon, he should do _anything_, but—

"I'm sorry it came to this, Leto."

However thick the haze may be, it is not impenetrable, and Fenris has not lost all his powers of cognition to shock. He makes the connection instantaneously, and this time, as his stomach swoops—but with a different feeling entirely, much worse than fear—the haze clears. In this state that he is so intimately acquainted with, he can think, he can know what she has done, he can see that once again, everything that he'd staked his hopes on and risked so much for is nothing but ashes. He put so much effort into finding Varania, gave her the coin she needed to get here, spent years verifying Hadriana's information, unable to let it rest—and now he finds that he does not mean so much to her.

He rounds on her. "You _led him here._" She cringes away from him, and only a small part of him thinks that perhaps her tension is guilt. Did she want to do this? Was she made to?

What does it matter? Danarius is here, and Varania is—

"Now, now, Fenris, don't blame your sister. She did what any good imperial citizen should." Fenris' head snaps up, and he takes a step back as Danarius joins them. His master is not a very tall man, but he holds his head high and looks down on them all, in the same way that he did a decade ago, and now Fenris knows where that sickly, clammy sensation is coming from. Danarius' magic never was pleasant to be around, even when he wasn't using blood magic.

It's all ashes. Everything he'd hoped and waited for—it means nothing. Even his name now is worthless. What did he expect, he wonders. There is nothing about his life that Danarius has not touched. Why should he be so surprised that Danarius would so ruin his efforts at finding out who he used to be? He does not want a slave that knows who he was. He wants a blank slate that he can do as he pleases to. He wants—

The markings.

"I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius!" Betrayal and something comparable to but much stronger than mere disappointment drive him into fury, but that fury keeps his head clear, at least for the moment. He glares up at his former master. He's come too far; he will not give in now, even if his efforts here have ended in abject failure. He deserves better than what Danarius has done to him, will do to him. "But I won't let you kill me to get them."

Danarius laughs, as condescending and falsely affable as ever. "Oh, how little you know, my pet," he says, and Fenris' back straightens at the hated words, and he lifts his head to better look Danarius in the eye. Not arrogance this time, but the pride of a man who knew slavery but now lives free, without chains. Danarius notices, judging by the way he looks at him, but he does not seem perturbed by his defiance. No doubt he came expecting a struggle.

His master shifts his gaze to Artur then, assessing him with keen interest and amused condescension. "And this is your new master, then?" he says lightly, and Fenris almost bares his teeth at the word. He would protest, but Danarius does not understand the concept of _equals_. There is no point. He continues, "The Champion of Kirkwall, who slew the Arishok in single combat? _Impressive._" Something in his tone makes it clear that as _displeased_ as Danarius is about Fenris' flight, he could do much worse for a new master. It is almost approval, and Fenris has to struggle to keep his markings from igniting.

He turns his head slightly to look at Artur, while keeping Danarius within his sight. Artur's eyes have gone wide, and he says nothing, but the look there, so reminiscent of the one he bore three years ago in the Vimmark Mountains when he realised that Corypheus was one of the Magisters Sidereal, says it all. No wonder he is silent; no wonder he does not immediately leap to Fenris' defence as Fenris had half-expected him to. Fear mixed with betrayal and disappointment on his behalf has frozen him into place.

Danarius sees something else, it would appear. "Why do you look at me as if I didn't know, Champion?" he asks, and his tone is so conversational and _wrong_ that it almost makes Fenris want to throw up. "It was all anyone could talk about in Minrathous for months. And look at you."

Fenris should put a stop to this. He knows he should. He should fling himself between Artur and Danarius, raise his maul, start the fight—but Danarius is not a man who will be denied, and even now, the simple aura of imperiousness and authority about him causes Fenris to stay his hand. He bows his head, despair almost swamping him. How is he to kill his master if this is how he reacts to his mere presence?

_Do not fall into self-pity. Focus._ He looks up again, sees Danarius raising an eyebrow and giving Artur another appraising look. Abruptly, the sickness and clamminess in the air become much stronger, that much more overwhelming, and Fenris hisses slightly as his markings react and another bolt of pain runs down his spine. What foul magic is Danarius using now? But Danarius' words distract him from the question.

"Grey-eyed. Very thin. A mage, one of some talent. The stories say you finished him off with lightning magic. That staff of yours simply crackles with it, so I'd say it's your area of expertise. Marvellous, isn't it, the things you can do with lightning?" Danarius says, still so conversational and affable, and the haze presses into Fenris' head again, his fury the only thing holding it at bay; his fingers tremble. He wonders how Danarius can know all this—how he can know that Artur is so thin when the robes he wears are too loose to give any signs as to his body type, how he can know that Artur specialises in lightning magic. But it doesn't matter. He wishes Artur would raise his staff and attack, but Artur is still all but paralysed, and when he speaks, the words come out half-strangled.

"What are you _saying_?" Perhaps it is a sick sense of curiosity that drives him on, not that Fenris can blame him. Perhaps he is stalling for time, in which case, Fenris will not let this chance go to waste. He focuses on his breathing, tries to calm himself, to force the haze out of his head, to stop the trembling of his fingers. Danarius is too powerful for there to be any room for mistakes. One wrong move, and it will be over.

But his efforts almost go to waste. Danarius laughs once again and steps closer to Fenris, and his eyes rake over him, taking him in slowly. There is a look there that Fenris knows all too well, and his stomach churns as he takes a quick step back. No. He will not permit this. But his eyes almost instinctively follow Danarius', and so he sees when Danarius pauses at the sight of the favour and the crest. His muscles go even tighter; his stomach clenches; he swallows his rising bile. What will Danarius make of that? Will he see it as a mark of ownership, or for what it really is?

Danarius' pale grey eyes—so unlike Artur's, so much colder and crueller—linger on him, but he addresses Artur. "Even at a glance, Champion, there are such similarities between us," he says, and Fenris' eyes go wide. Danarius looks back at him, and his smile is both fond and as condescending as ever. "Ah, Fenris… for all you claim to be running away from me, you're still running _towards_ me."

The haze surges back into his mind once again, drowning out the fury, and Fenris hastily stumbles back. He can almost feel the blood draining from his face, and he wishes more than ever that Artur would pick up his nerve. This is becoming torturous. But as to what Danarius says—no. It's not; he's not. Even in the beginning, when Fenris startled and then glared as he spotted Artur using lightning magic in the mansion, he never thought the two alike, and he never has since. Artur is cautious and controlled where Danarius is reckless, sacrificing control for power, and he is kind and honourable where Danarius is cruel and corrupt and smacking of almost every sin that exists. Whatever such skin-deep similarities may exist between them, they are nothing in the face of everything else.

"He is _not_ you, Danarius! He is _nothing_ like you!" But the words do not come out as strong as he would like. Rather than an affirmation designed to boost both his confidence and Artur's, because Fenris can see the mounting terror and even the nausea in Artur's eyes, it seems more like a weak protest, as if he's trying to reassure himself of something that he doesn't know to be true. Danarius' influence acting on him again, no doubt, and Fenris is forced to look away just so that he can _try_ to clear his head.

"Oh, you needn't be so recalcitrant," Danarius says, as if he recognises the protest—which he must. Danarius always was good at reading people. "You weren't always this way, Fenris. Once upon a time, you had affection for me. I remember it fondly. And now it seems you've transferred it to the Champion."

Another pulse, another wave of fear; the haze presses still more strongly into his head. He can _sense_ it in Danarius' words, an undercurrent of… resentment. Envy, even, though that's something of a stretch. Bruised pride, maybe, that what Danarius considers _his_ prefers someone else. And beneath even that, a _knowing_, and Fenris' blood chills. How could Danarius know? Has he recognised the cloth and the crest for what they are, or…?

He looks down at Danarius' palm, sees it move slightly, sees Danarius clench and unclench his fingers, and the skin is stained with fresh blood. His blood.

Of course. Blood magic. What is Danarius reading from them using his blood? _Hawke, we have to fight him. If this gets too far—_He needs to tell Artur this, he knows, but something keeps him from doing so. Is it his fear… or is it the blood magic? Is Danarius manipulating him? The chill turns to freezing cold, and Fenris looks away again. His resolve is shaking, and he's not sure what it is that keeps it from breaking entirely. For the moment, a question stays him: all this time, and Danarius has not once mentioned the markings. Why?

That question seems to have occurred to Artur, too. "Why do you want him back so badly?!" he demands. His voice trembles, and he still shows no signs that he is about to spring into action. "If this is about the markings—"

Danarius smirks, in the way he does when he knows something that others don't, but that he considers to be obvious. "Is that what you think?" he says, and he chuckles as he looks between Artur and Fenris. "It's not about the markings. If it were so, I would have found a suitable replacement for Fenris. But it never was."

The world falls out from under Fenris' feet.

He stares at Danarius, and Danarius looks placidly back at him, still smiling, drinking in the look of horrified realisation that Fenris can all but feel coming over his face. _Not about the markings. Never about them._ Somewhere, Fenris has always known that that was true, for why else would Danarius have pursued him so doggedly, apart from reasons of pride? But it was so easy to pretend that it was not so, that Danarius only wanted the markings back. It made coping with everything that he had ever done to him much less difficult. If he could pretend that Danarius was obsessed with the markings, not _him_ personally, it made it all—the whippings, the propping up the furniture, what happened to the Fog Warriors, the late-night visits—so much easier to bear. And so he did.

But he no longer can. It was never about the markings.

"It was always about you, little wolf," Danarius says, and Fenris closes his eyes and fights to remain steady on his feet. The world is spinning. "Just you. No matter how stubborn you've been, you'll always be mine, you'll always belong to me. Come back to me now, and I'll be merciful. I promise." And Fenris can almost believe him, and Maker, so much of him is tempted—just give in, it'll be easier than fighting all the time. Go back, do what he was meant and made to do. Except—

"He doesn't belong to you, you _bastard!_" Artur's voice cuts through the haze, and there, finally, is anger. Fenris shakes his head, shakes off the haze and the moment of weakness, and his muscles go tight again. If Artur has at last found his rage, then surely, the fight must be coming soon. "He doesn't belong to _anyone!_"

_Thank you, Artur,_ he thinks. But Danarius is, as ever, completely unperturbed.

"Do I detect a note of jealousy?" He chuckles again, briefly. "It's not surprising. The lad is _rather_ skilled, isn't he?"

And _that_ is enough.

No more haze this time, no more panic or weakness or betrayal or anything like that. His stomach may clench, and his face may burn with something like humiliation—Maker, no, this wasn't how he wanted Artur to find out about _that_, if indeed he wanted him to find out at all, and he can see from the way Artur reels back and suddenly glares at Danarius with a fury he reserves for few others that he has not missed the implication of those words—but the rage overpowers it all. This time, when his markings ignite, Fenris does nothing to stop them. Danarius will pay—and so will Varania, for being so willing to hand her own brother back to him.

"Shut your mouth, Danarius!"

Here, Danarius' smug mask finally cracks, but it is only to display a faint hint of irritation. "_Verbum dominus est, mi Fenris,_" he says, and the tone is chiding, but with an undercurrent of warning—a warning that he will not be so merciful should Fenris continue to defy him.

He will run that risk.

"_Eum capite,_" Danarius says to the hunters as he turns away. Varania slinks into a corner. "_Alios interficite._"

He'll die first.


	2. Power

**Author's Note:** Trigger warning before we proceed: there's lots of violence, as well as a very explicit mention of Danarius' sexual abuse of Fenris towards the end. Again, please leave a review, and kudos if you liked it!

* * *

Danarius ascends the stairs again, but before Fenris can draw his maul and pursue him, the hunters swarm them all. This part is easy enough, has practically become rote after spending so many years evading the hunters and helping Artur and Aveline clear out slavers' nests in and around Kirkwall. He smashes one's chest in with his maul, whips around to break another man's neck when that man grabs his shoulder, then turns again, plunges his hand into the chest of a third, and rips his heart out. He chucks the heart in the direction of the stairs, then gets back to it. In the meantime, Artur fries the slavers with his lightning, which jumps between them and finishes at the wall, searing it; Aveline breaks another one's neck when she smashes her shield into him, and a few well-placed arrows from Sebastian cripple several more, allowing Fenris and Aveline to make short work of them. There is a rush of air as Artur drags the remaining hunters into one group, hears a loud thump and the sound of bones breaking as they are lifted into the air then slammed back to the ground with great force, and then turns to see Artur set them on fire. The screaming cannot get to him—would never have got to him, anyway—and as Fenris approaches to slam his maul into more of their chests while Aveline takes care of the rest, he is more concerned with how the fire sears and blackens the floor beneath it.

As the flames flicker and die out, Fenris breathes heavily, and he looks up to the sight of Artur and Sebastian giving him the most reassuring looks that they can muster. Sebastian's face is unusually hard, his mouth set in a grim line and his eyes sparking with something like fire, and here and there, he looks up the stairs, and he scowls. It is uncharacteristic of him but it is good to see, anyway, and even better to see the encouragement on his and Artur's faces when they look at him. _Not everyone has betrayed you,_ he thinks. _Perhaps you should remember that._ But the moment is interrupted by the noise of the floorboards breaking, and Fenris whirls around at the same time as a pair of shades and a rage demon arise before him; similar noises from behind indicate that the same is happening closer to the door. As the creatures rise, the floorboards split, withering and rotting before the shades and burning to ash before the demon, and Fenris shakes his head as he hurls himself at one of the shades.

"How did he _do_ that? Where did he get those from?" Artur demands over all the noise, over his lightning, the moans of the shades and the snarling of the demon, over the clash of steel against the creatures, over the sound of Sebastian firing anew.

"This is Kirkwall!" Fenris shouts back as he cleaves through the shade. "You know how thin the Veil is here! Does this truly surprise you?"

Artur groans, and gooseflesh suddenly erupts on Fenris' skin. As he finishes off the shade, he repositions himself, turns around, and sees that a wall of ice has erupted from Artur's staff. The ice melts after a moment, thanks to the heat of the rage demon that it so briefly contained, leaving a puddle on the floor and even more cracks and splits in the floorboards. Fenris leaps up and slams his maul into the demon, which roars and turns to face him; another well-timed ice spell from Artur freezes it again, allowing Fenris to readjust his position in order to get out of the way of its claws. As he does so, he sees one of the remaining shades advancing on Artur.

"Hawke! Behind you!"

Artur whirls around in time to raise his staff, but evidently not in time to defend himself; as Fenris smashes the maul into the demon again and jumps back while it unfreezes, he hears Artur cry out in pain. At once, he can smell blood, alongside the scents of rot, decay, and burning that inevitably accompany shades and rage demons. Fenris would ask how bad the wound is, but the demon keeps him occupied; as Artur is firing spells again a few seconds later, he would suppose that it's bearable, nothing that Anders can't handle. This allows him to concentrate more on the rage demon than he might have done so otherwise and, moments later, when the demon abruptly freezes as stone gathers around it, holding it in place, Fenris knows that this, at least, will be over soon.

When the demon at last falls, with a very satisfying final moan, Fenris pants and wipes the sweat off his brow, and he looks up to see Artur rubbing his forehead. Blood drips from between the gaps in his fingers, and when he pulls his hand away, Fenris can tell at once that his forehead has been sliced open, no doubt by the shade's claws. Not life-threatening, but it looks painful; still, when Fenris catches his gaze, Artur nods and gives him a thumbs-up. Reassuring, certainly. But that comfort soon vanishes when Fenris hears the floorboards breaking yet _again_ and turns to observe corpses and skeletons rising from beneath.

"Corpses now? Really?" Aveline mutters, but Fenris only shakes his head again, tries not to think about the fact that there are corpses under the Hanged Man (and that Danarius knew about this), turns to the one that's closest to him, and promptly makes his best effort at cleaving it in two. It doesn't work, but he tries. In the meantime, Aveline slashes and dices with her sword and knocks the corpses aside with her shield; Artur uses his magic to electrify, burn, freeze, and smash the corpses as he will (while yet again searing and causing still more cracks in the walls and the floors); Sebastian is almost swarmed, and Fenris sees him using his dagger. Which is probably just as well; he can't have that many arrows left in his quiver.

"Varric will not be happy when he sees this," Artur says at one point, and as grave as the situation is, Fenris can't help but snort as he contemplates the expressions on Varric and Isabela's faces when they see how thoroughly they've trashed the Hanged Man. There are fires burning in the corners; the chairs have been upended; Fenris is fairly sure he saw Artur toss a table at one group of the corpses in order to splatter them, breaking the table in the process, and the walls and the floors are seared, blackened, and cracking, all from Artur's magic alone. And all this because Fenris came here to speak to Varania, and she…

Sebastian, who is busy wrenching a corpse's hand from off his neck and plunging his dagger into its heart, is less impressed. "Perhaps we can worry about that when we don't have a magister trying to kill us all!" he says loudly, and Artur obliges him by conjuring some stone, forming it into the shape of a fist, and hurling it at the corpse that is trying to sneak up on him. The thing smashes into the wall with a satisfying growl of pain, and Artur finishes it off with another bolt of lightning. At the same time, Fenris smashes in the last corpse's head, but the thing has barely crumpled to the floor when yet _more_ corpses and shades rise, wrecking what remains of the Hanged Man's floor in the process. This time, they make a beeline for him, and Fenris soon finds himself surrounded.

At the same moment, Sebastian shouts, "There! Danarius! He's joining in! Somebody stop him!"

This should be his, by all rights, but as Fenris tries to hack and smash his way through the corpses, he sees Artur dispose of a shade then run over to the stairs. He raises his staff, which begins to glow with white light. "Hawke, no!"

"He will not have you!" Artur shouts, and Fenris can only shake his head helplessly and keep half an eye on Artur as he struggles to keep the corpses and shades from swarming him. "Maker take you, you will not have him!" Artur yells up to Danarius, and Fenris shivers as the air itself is suddenly electrified. He can _hear_ the sparking, even almost feel it in his markings, which ache in protest, but the pain is lost in the distraction of the fight. As he fells still another shade, and as Sebastian's arrow brings down a corpse to his right, Fenris looks up and sees Artur and Danarius all but duelling. Both have cast spells of lightning, and the spells have met and are pushing back against each other; now it remains to see who will be the one to falter.

_Artur, no. This is too much for you to do alone! Kaffas!_ Fenris ignites the markings again, stunning the corpses and the shades, and he takes advantage of the opportunity to start cutting them down uninhibited; with Aveline and Sebastian's help, most of the creatures are soon dead. As Aveline makes quick work of the remainders, Fenris turns to find Artur and Danarius still struggling against each other. Even from here, he can tell from the expression on Danarius' face that this is no real effort, while Artur's body is hunching over, his feet bracing against the floor; this is wearing on him.

"Artur—" But Danarius waves his free hand, which briefly glows with a foul light, and even _more_ shades and corpses appear, and Fenris swears as one tries to claw at him. He makes quick work of it, but still, he keeps half an eye on his master and the man he once dared to love.

Danarius is growing visibly irritated. "This would have been much easier for you if you had handed him over, Champion," he says, and before Artur can respond, he waves his staff, moving it in a clean arc through the air. The energy is released, the chain of lightning broken; Artur screams as it strikes him and throws him back through the air, into the edge of the bar. He slams into it with a terrible thump, falls to the ground, and Fenris' heart almost stops as for a moment, he sees nothing more. A few seconds later, however, Artur staggers back to his feet, forehead and mask smeared with blood, grey eyes flashing with fury. He lifts his staff again.

"No!" Fenris yells, drawing his attention. "He's too much for you, Hawke! Get back over here!" He well knows how ironic this is, for did Artur not defeat the Arishok single-handed? But that was also a significant risk. He will not leave his life to chance again, not here. If he got himself killed in the defence of him from Danarius…

Artur hesitates for a long moment, but then nods and steps towards the fray, directing his lightning and his fire and ice towards the shades and the corpses now. By this point, Fenris' muscles are aching, and he is tiring. He knows what Danarius is trying to do, and it's a sound strategy. They need to break through the corpses and shades and get to his master, and assault him while ignoring the attacks of the creatures, but there are too many of them at present for that to be viable. When they have got their numbers down, perhaps he will call out to the others to come with him and get to Danarius.

But Danarius seems content to leave them be for the moment, to watch as they tear their way through his undead and demonic underlings, and as they fall at his feet, Fenris wonders what his master is planning. There was a time when Fenris would have been able to predict this with some accuracy, but now he has doubts, and that frightens him. Doubt is the last thing he needs in this situation. So he keeps glancing between Danarius and the shades and corpses as frequently as he can, and he tries to keep himself steeled for whatever his master is preparing.

He gets his answer when he hears a whooshing sound and looks up to see a ball of not quite opaque light in the centre of a vortex that Artur is standing just inside. Fenris' stomach sinks; he knows this trick well enough. But before he can call out to Artur, a shade rakes its claws down his back, and Fenris snarls as he turns around, ignites the markings to stun the creatures, and smashes his maul into the shade's chest. That done, he turns back to Artur and shouts, "Artur! _Move!_"

Artur hears him and takes a hasty step forward, but at that moment, before he can go any further, the ball shrinks down to nothing, then rapidly expands, then explodes, and there is another whoosh as Artur is hurled through the air, through the bar—most of which has crumbled by now—into the wall of the Hanged Man closest to the door. Fenris flinches and quickly removes himself from the fight, prepared to go to Artur's aid and help him back to his feet. But from where he is, he can see Artur, struggling to get up—the chairs and the tables that would have been in the way have long since been thoroughly wrecked or else forced out of the way by Artur's magic—and so he can see when blood abruptly _spurts_ from the wound in his forehead like water from a fountain, forming first a geyser, then a vortex. And it keeps coming—too much of it to be natural.

In that moment, Fenris realises what Danarius' plan is, and he chides himself for not having seen so before. How could he have missed something so blatantly obvious? But in that same moment, he sees Artur slump back to the floor, sees his eyes roll up into his head, sees him go utterly still as the blood continues to spurt, then leak from his wound.

For a long moment, the world, too, goes still and silent.

Then he erupts. That is _it_.

"_NO! I will not allow it!_" He screams the words so loudly that they practically echo in his ears.

With that, while Sebastian yells for him to stop, Fenris hurls himself over the wreckage of the nearest table, readjusts his grip on his maul, and hurtles towards his former master. Artur will _not_ fall to Danarius, and Danarius will _not_ use his blood for his foul magic, not if he has anything to say about it. "_Morere!_" he snarls, uncaring of how unperturbed Danarius looks even now. "_Te trama nequam putida morere!_"

Danarius, in response, glares at him—as he expected—and merely repeats his words from before, but in a harsher tone. "_Verbum dominus est, Fenris,_" he says quietly, and Fenris looks down to see a similar ball of not quite opaque light shrinking beneath him. Mere seconds later, as Fenris tries to scramble up the stairs and get out of the way, it expands, and the breath leaves his lungs as it explodes and throws him back. The air rushes past him, and Fenris hears Sebastian's shout as he is hurled past the bar. He slams into the wall, and Maker only knows what prevents him from losing consciousness even for a second, but he won't look a gift horse in the mouth. On the ground, Fenris groans and tries to grip the wall with his hand to get himself back to his feet, but then—so suddenly—the scene changes.

And, somehow, he's back in Minrathous, back in Danarius' estate, in his chambers at night, on his knees before his master, he in only his trousers, Danarius in only his tunic, which he has hitched up. His master sits on the edge of his bed and strokes his hair soothingly, sometimes pulls at it to give him directions, while Fenris pleasures him, kisses and sucks at his legs before moving to his cock, kissing down it, sucking it, licking the precum that leaks from the head, taking as much of it in his mouth as he can, practically to the hilt—_irrumo, irrumo, irrumator_—bracing his hands against Danarius' knees while Danarius keeps stroking him and encourages him with gentle words, continuing until Danarius shudders and releases, holding it all in his mouth until he says, "_Fenris, deglutti, amitte._" He does so, and looks keenly up at his master, who smiles indulgently at him and strokes his hair. "_Macte, mi Fenris,_" he says warmly. There are other words, too, but Fenris cannot hear them over the mounting terror, over the screams in his head that he hasn't the power to release—no, how can he be back here, how has this happened, how did he get here so suddenly, how, why—

Then, even more abruptly, the image breaks, and Fenris finds himself back on the floor of the Hanged Man, staring up at the ceiling, his heart pounding away in his chest, his forehead slick with sweat. There is no sign of Sebastian or Aveline, and the scents of blood and rot and decay are _everywhere_ and the sickliness and clamminess of the atmosphere are pressing down on him, suffocating him, the way he was suffocated when Danarius had his cock in his mouth, and his markings are on fire, igniting and burning and ignoring his brain's admittedly weak commands to stop, and there's so much noise, so much of _everything_, and this time, Fenris can't keep himself from turning on his side and throwing up. When he's done, he collapses back down and moans.

A moment later, Aveline appears, her sword raised and her shield before her. Fenris lifts his head and looks almost groggily at her. "Aveline…?"

She approaches him.

He coughs and gags, getting the last of the vomit out of his mouth. He feels so drained, so beaten. He had to know that fighting Danarius could only end like this. Why did he bother? And yet… and yet Danarius still hasn't got to him, even though he's been on the floor for Maker knows how long. There's still a chance for him, and perhaps for Hawke too, assuming the blood loss hasn't killed him yet. Fenris lets out another moan. If there's a chance, he has to take it. He will not fall to that _irrumator_ again. Never again.

But first, he needs help.

"Aveline… please…"

But Aveline only raises her sword higher, growling—in the way she would at an enemy. Fenris' eyes go wide. "Aveline, what…?"

Then he sees. Her eyes are clouded, filled with blind hate—hate so blind, that it cannot be her own. Fenris gasps quietly and hauls himself away from her, dragging himself over the floor, hoping that Aveline's slowness to respond is her own mind fighting against the enthrallment Danarius has placed her under. When his head hits the remains of the bar, he pulls himself up into a sitting position, then places his hands on the floor and lifts himself up slightly, enough so that he can turn to observe what's going on behind him.

Below him, he sees Artur, and his heart sinks at the sight. Artur is soaked in blood, all of it his own; it stains his hair and his mask and his armour, and his forehead is all red as well, and there's a small puddle of the stuff growing beneath him, too. His chest still rises and falls, but the movements are weak and infrequent—already? How long has it been? Regardless, if they do not stop Danarius soon, Artur will die here. _Maker, Artur, I'm sorry. I should not have asked this of you,_ Fenris thinks, and for a moment, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. Then he looks up again, looking for Sebastian. He finds him standing in the middle of the wrecked pub, head thrown back, arms splayed out as though he's been crucified, face contorted in agony. He is paralysed, but he twitches in a most unnatural manner, and with these spasms, blood comes trickling out from gaps in his armour that Fenris can't recall having been there before. This spell he recognises, too: it is also blood magic, and it may well kill Sebastian too, if Danarius keeps it up. And it is not his own blood that Danarius is using…

No. He will not allow these people, his friends, to die for him, to be sacrificed to Danarius' obsession with him. They have all been through so much, some of it on his account, and they deserve better. He will live free, and they will _live_. As to Varania, whoever he may have been while he was Leto, and everything else—that is all very far away at present.

Even so. On the floor, Artur is unconscious and bleeding to death, losing his blood to Danarius' machinations; in the middle of the pub, Sebastian is paralysed and may soon be unconscious as well; hardly a metre away from him, Aveline struggles against her enthrallment and may lose out and bring her sword down at any moment. At the other end of a room is a magister, still in perfect health and, though all of his underlings have been slain, at the absolute height of his power. Fenris told Artur the night they met that Danarius didn't get to where he is by being incompetent. Now his words are proven true, in the worst way possible. He is with allies yet alone, alone to fight Danarius—as, somehow, he had always suspected he would be, in the end.

Fenris groans and rests his head against the bar. "_Me futue,_" he mutters.


	3. Alone

Slowly, Fenris sinks back to the floor and searches around for his maul, while keeping half an eye on Aveline, whose arm trembles as she struggles inside herself. He finds it where he dropped it and, moving as though something is weighing down his arms, he crawls over to it and wraps his hands gingerly around the haft. Then he begins to lift it, but still his movements are sluggish, and abruptly, Fenris is fighting simply to keep his eyes open. How easy it would be to collapse again, to sleep, untroubled by the visions of Minrathous that assault the edges of his mind…

No. He must remain clear. Gripping the haft as tightly as he can, Fenris turns his head to peer over the bar. Just beneath it is a cloud of swirling, chaotic energy, spiralling out like one of Artur's gravitic rings, seeping beneath the wrecked wood and clawing at him. Distantly, Fenris knows this spell too, and he knows that he must keep away from it, as best he can. He grits his teeth and rises to his feet and practically snarls with the effort, and he turns to face Aveline. For a long moment, they remain locked in their stand-off, then Aveline raises her shield and shouts, "You will fall!" and charges straight for him.

Fenris swears under his breath and raises his maul, but the movement is painfully slow, and the fact that Aveline is also in the cloud, and thus equally affected, is of little comfort. She thrusts forward, ready to stab him in his unprotected abdomen; Fenris only barely manages to bring down his maul in time to parry the blade, knocking it aside and leaving her vulnerable to having her breastplate smashed in—which Fenris does not want to do. As he searches for an idea, for he has no clue how long Aveline's enthrallment will last and he can't afford to waste time on the hope that she might recover before Artur dies or Sebastian loses consciousness, Aveline recovers herself and charges forth with her shield. For a moment, Fenris thinks that she aims to bring it up into his neck, but he is proven wrong when she knocks his maul aside as he did her sword then smashes the shield into his chest with an audible crack.

Fenris reels back, gasping, his grip on the haft of his maul loosening, almost doubling up with the sudden agony in his ribs. Some small part of him is glad that she hit the side of the chest opposite his heart, but that matters little; now he is walking on broken ribs on top of bruises, cuts, and Maker only knows what else. As he stumbles, the cloud of energy dissipates, at once restoring clarity to his mind: the visions of Minrathous end, and he can see now what he must do. He cannot waste his energy on Aveline, not when Artur's life is draining away by the second, not when Sebastian is still in trouble. A quick solution is necessary.

So saying, Fenris drops the maul, ignites the markings again, and approaches Aveline; before she can move to try to stab him again, he plunges his hand into her sword arm, feeling past her muscles for the bone, for the joint in her elbow. At the same time, his other hand yanks her close, too close for her to hit him again with her shield or do any real damage with her sword. Just briefly, they grapple, then Fenris freezes her in place and look her in the eye as his hand locks around her bone. "I am sorry, Aveline," he murmurs, then changes his grip, yanking her arm forward until her hand rests over her shoulder with his other hand while pulling her radius in the opposite direction. After a moment, Fenris winces as he hears the crack, and in the next instant, Aveline is shouting out in pain, her arm now all but locked into place where he left it. He pulls his hand out, then rests them on her breastplate and shoves her away; she staggers back into what remains of the bar and collapses to the ground, and she does not get up again.

Fenris watches her just for a moment, shaking his head, hoping that what he's just done won't leave Aveline's sword arm permanently crippled and that Anders can fix it. But he turns his mind to other matters soon enough. Picking up the maul again and readjusting his grip, ignoring Aveline's pained shouts as best he can, he turns back around to survey the carnage, and he finds Sebastian still paralysed, still twitching; by this point, Danarius' spell has caused his armour to become more red than white. Danarius himself has descended a few of the stairs but remains far away and in perfect control, and Varania seems to have disappeared. Where to, Fenris doesn't know, and he doesn't much care.

He takes a deep breath and hurls himself back over the remains of the bar, and as he approaches Sebastian, he looks between him and Danarius, trying to analyse the situation. While his master looks ready to spring another surprise on him, and no doubt will do so if Fenris doesn't act first, Fenris can also see from his furrowed brow and the slight grimace on his face that he is concentrating intently on his haemorrhaging spell. Break that concentration, Fenris realises, with something that Danarius can't ignore, and Sebastian will be freed. By this point, Sebastian is swaying on his feet; Fenris positions himself behind him, grabs his shoulder to keep him from collapsing, and then looks down. Strapped to Sebastian's belt, he sees his dagger. That will do.

Fenris lays his free hand on the dagger and yanks it out of its sheath, then, hiding behind Sebastian though he knows that that will do him little good if Danarius prepares another spell, he takes aim. There's no time to line it up; if Danarius notices, he will get out of the way and will still be able to maintain his spell all the while. But he aims for his master's head nevertheless, pulls back, and then hurls the dagger as though it were a spear. He almost wishes it was.

Danarius notices the dagger when it's maybe only half of the way towards him, but even from here, Fenris can see the subtle shift in his expression, the way his eyes briefly go wide, then narrow. Moving so quickly that it must be instinctual, Danarius sweeps his arms through the air, and Fenris feels another whoosh as the blade is knocked aside. That's not important. What is important is that when he moved both his arms, Danarius broke the spell. What is even more important is Sebastian's sudden gasp and the way he slumps to his knees. Quickly, Fenris grabs him by the collar and drags him back to the bar, pushing him over and to the floor—none too gently—and then hurling himself over to join him.

Sebastian leans against the remains of the bar—only a pile of wood by this point—and moans. "Maker," he says weakly as he opens his pack and pulls out a health potion. "Fenris, I owe you my life."

"Thank me later," Fenris says, peering nervously over the bar to see Danarius, now visibly angry, descending the remaining stairs into the centre of the tavern and beginning to prepare another spell. "We still need to deal with him."

Sebastian swallows the potion in two gulps and tosses the phial aside. "How?" he says, uncharacteristically despairing, as the colour returns to his face. "Look at all he's done! We haven't even landed a single scratch on him!"

"Keep your voice down," Fenris hisses, though he knows that that is useless; Danarius must have seen him haul Sebastian over the bar. Still, no need to give away their plans. "We can't get close to him. We need to surprise him, and we need to take him down from far off. We'll need your arrows."

Unsurprisingly, Sebastian looks down at himself and makes a small noise of disbelief. "I will do my best," he says, and Fenris knows that he means it, but he can also hear Sebastian's doubt. Indeed, it seems a tall order even to him. But a few arrows placed in the proper places can be deadly even to one such as Danarius, who never did specialise in healing spells. "An arrow to his leg might take him down. An arrow to his shoulder would sever an artery. He'll bleed out from that easily. But how—" At that moment, the very sudden, very _loud_ noise of a powerful wind interrupts them, and Fenris groans and throws his arms over his head as snow begins to fall on them and wind to blow past them. Gooseflesh erupts on his skin again and a shiver runs down his spine.

"Er, Fenris?" Sebastian mutters. "Why would your master throw this at—?"

Fenris knows. He can already hear the crackling in the air, can feel the electricity and the sparking even though Danarius is almost on the other side of the room. "Wait for it," he says, and sure enough, seconds later, lightning joins snow and Fenris cries out in sudden pain and curls up into a ball as a bolt strikes him and as the air practically erupts with every element bar fire. Over the noise, he can barely hear himself think, and here and there, bolts strike him repeatedly, leaving him gasping and groaning, his hairs standing on end. One strikes the bar, and there is a sudden warmth off to his side. Now there is fire.

"Maker have mercy!" Sebastian cries. "What manner of spell is this?"

"Enough!" Fenris gasps out as he feels around for his maul. "There's a window on the upper level! Get out of here, go around, and climb through the window! Try to shoot at Danarius from the top of the stairs!" An even taller order, he knows, but they have no choice. Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris can see that Aveline has also lost consciousness. Maker only knows what state Artur must be in by now.

Sebastian nods and pulls one of his flasks out of his bag. "I'll do my best, Fenris, I swear," he says. "But for your own sake, stay down!"

Fenris doesn't need to be told twice. He curls up onto his side, pressing his hands into either side of his face as he tucks his head into his chest, and he pushes back as far as he can into the pile of wood, allowing some of it to fall naturally on top of him. Unwise, he knows, especially if the lightning strikes it and sets it on fire, but he'll be able to move quickly enough if that turns out to be the case. Sebastian, meanwhile, hurls himself back over the bar and out of sight. A few seconds later, Fenris hears the flask shattering somewhere well behind him—at Danarius' feet, most likely—and then, moments after that, the sound of the door slamming. Just faintly, he can hear Danarius mutter, "_Kaffas._" A clear sign of how much this is angering him, for Danarius is normally too refined and polite to swear, but his anger means nothing if he ends up capturing Fenris regardless.

Though at this rate, he's likely going to have to do what Fenris always tried to convince himself he wanted to do: rip the markings from his corpse. Better that than being captured again, he supposes. Even so, he hopes like burning that Sebastian hurries.

So he remains on the floor and braces himself against it as best he can while the storm rages overhead, ripping the wood from the walls and the floors, searing it, splitting and cracking it when the frost touches it, absolutely annihilating everything in its path that isn't alive. For just a moment, a sense of security almost settles on him, here in his makeshift shelter—but he should know better than that. In the very next instant, the storm and another spell of Danarius' tear the wood away and expose Fenris' back to the freezing winds. The moment after that, he feels Danarius' spell on him, trying to physically pull him away. With an articulate cry, Fenris tries to find something to grapple, but the floorboards here are all gone; there is nothing for him to cling onto but his maul. The wood splinters in his armour and his exposed flesh as he is hauled away, but Fenris can hardly sense the pain over the growing terror in his head. Once again, the haze presses into his mind, and he finds himself repeatedly shouting out, though his yells are oddly high-pitched. _Sebastian, please!_

"_Satis, Fenris!_" Danarius shouts, and Fenris can _feel_ him tugging, putting his all into the spell, yanking him back as though he were on a leash. Through the blinding panic and the chaos of the storm which is only just beginning to abate, Fenris notes that there are more holes here for him to get his fingers into, and corpses that he could hold on to, but though he tries, the force of Danarius' spell—a more complex, powerful version of Artur's similar pulling spell—is too much, and it drags him inexorably back through the bloodshed, much like a dog. He struggles, he screams, he cries out, he grapples, but it changes nothing.

But what did he expect? Danarius is a magister. What's the point in fighting him?

His shoulders slump, and his head bows. Sebastian is not here, Aveline is unconscious, Artur is almost dead… perhaps he should give up. How many has he killed to get to where he is, innocents who didn't deserve it? How many bodies has he climbed over for his freedom? What makes him better than the mages? And no matter how much he fights, what will he ever be other than Danarius' attack animal? Perhaps it would be best if he just gave in. It would mean everything else was for nothing, but…

At that moment, as Danarius' spell drags Fenris through the same space Sebastian was standing in only a few minutes ago and over the small puddle of his blood, he looks up. Through the clearing fog, he sees Artur, blood-splattered—and unmoving.

Something snaps. "Danarius!" he shouts, and his voice breaks. "Stop! I beg you, _stop!_" And he has sunk so far that he cannot even feel any hatred at the fact that he has been reduced to pleading. Of course he would plead. He is Danarius' dog.

"I will not stop until you are back with me, Fenris," Danarius says steadily, and he continues to tug Fenris back.

"Spare him!" The words tumble from his mouth, and this time, there's no defiance, only begging. Part of him wonders, again, when Artur came to so completely encapsulate and represent his freedom that he now considers pleading for his life to be equivalent to fighting for his own. "_Ei parce!_" And his voice keeps breaking, keeps withering away. The world is becoming blurry. "_Quaeso, ei parce!_" He shouldn't be begging, he knows. Artur would not want this. But at this point, he doesn't care. He cannot see Artur die.

That is, if it's not too late.

Abruptly, the tugging stops, and Fenris gasps as he slumps to the floor. He warily looks behind him to see Danarius straightening up. The smile on his face is one of interest and a smug pleasure, the smile a man wears when he knows that he has won, and Fenris is so tired and beaten that he cannot even bring himself to hate it. "I might be able to do that, Fenris," he says, and just dimly, Fenris becomes aware of a sensation leaving his mind, similar to how the visions of Minrathous left him. Despair, he realises. Danarius manipulating him again. The fury surges up once more, forces the haze out of his head, and he sets his teeth. "Give yourself back, and I will spare him. He has just enough blood left in him to be healed. _Promitto._"

For a moment, Fenris looks back at Artur, sees how still he is, how much blood surrounds him, and the temptation returns. He would not see him die for this, for him, not after everything; he would not add another corpse to the pile that he has already climbed over to get to this point. The temptation wars with his fury—but then—

"No. You won't." That's Sebastian's voice, and Fenris turns himself over just in time to see him fire an arrow into Danarius' leg. Danarius lets out a pained gasp and, seconds later, slumps to his knee, but at the top of the stairs, commanding the whole room, a steely, flinty look in his eyes, Sebastian does not lower his bow. Indeed, he raises it, aiming for something else entirely.

"Maker have mercy on you. Fenris and I certainly won't," he says coolly, and fires an arrow into Danarius' shoulder. Blood spurts from the wound as Danarius exhales again, and Fenris looks to the wound and sees that it is fatal. It will not kill him immediately, but the blood loss will. Fitting, given what he has just done to Artur.

But there is something even more fitting that Fenris can do to him.

As Sebastian descends the stairs, Fenris gets to his feet. He breathes heavily, or as heavily as he can, considering his ribs, and his vision is almost becoming red, both from the blood and the rage that now blinds him to almost everything else. All that Danarius has done here, all that he ever did to him—the Fog Warriors, the whippings, the rapes, the other degradations, the stripping him of everything he ever was in order to make him his—it comes back to him now, and Fenris' stomach roils with disgust that he could ever consider submitting to Danarius even for the sake of saving Artur's life.

He ignites the markings, storms over to Danarius, plunges his hand into his chest—right where his heart is—and picks him up. His master is not a very tall man, nor is he heavy. It's almost insultingly easy.

"_Tu meus dominus non iam es._" Then he squeezes.

A moment later, there's a sound somewhere between a crunch and a squelch, and Danarius goes limp. Briefly, Fenris remains fixed in place where he stands, uncomprehending—then he _does_ comprehend, and he drops his former master's corpse and stares down at it. It was almost anticlimactic, he thinks, given everything that happened leading up to this. But they could not have taken him down any other way, this much he knows. His arms shake, and his chest is going tight from more than just pain, and his breathing comes quick and shallow, and getting faster almost by the second. Over. It's finally over. So why does he feel so sick, so shaken? Danarius is—dead—and he has survived. Sebastian, Aveline—

Artur.

The moment the name pops into his head, Fenris whirls around and races across the floor to where the man who once dared to love him and got his heart torn out of his chest for his trouble lies. Sebastian tends to him, and out of the corner of his eye, Fenris can see Aveline getting to her feet with a groan. But that is almost outside of his knowledge; his focus is all on Artur. He kneels next to him, and warmth floods him as he sees the man's eyes flickering open, his chest rising and falling again, his limbs stirring faintly. _Alive. Unconquered. Invictus. Vivus. Artur, live for me. Vive. I… beg you._

Though he hadn't meant to, he can't help but give voice to his thoughts when several seconds have passed and Artur is still only stirring. He puts a hand on his chest and shakes. "Artur!" he hisses. "_Artur!_ Wake up! Dammit, don't _die_ on me! Wake up! Don't—" He's aware of how clichéd his words are, how much like a clingy lover he must sound, but the tightness in his chest is due to far more than just the pain in his ribs.

Sebastian puts a hand on his shoulder, and Fenris looks up at him. "I've given him a potion," he says, his usual gentleness back in place. "Give him a moment."

"He almost died on my account," Fenris says, and he exhaustedly runs a hand over his face. "May still die yet."

"We'll get Anders," Sebastian soothes. "He's not dead _yet_."

Fenris takes as deep a breath as he can muster, nods, and then looks up at Aveline, who comes limping over to them, clutching the elbow of her broken arm with her free hand. Her expression is pained, but there are no signs of anger. Indeed, when she looks at Fenris, regret seems to join the pain. "Fenris, I…" she says after a moment. "Maker's blood, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Fenris says. "He was controlling your mind."

"I tried to fight him," Aveline says. "But it was too much. Shit."

"You held out for a remarkably long time, considering," Fenris tells her. "I can hardly blame you for giving in. Be glad that you did nothing worse than break a few of my ribs, and I'm sorry I had to break your arm to stop you."

Aveline grimaces and looks down at her arm. The bone pokes slightly out of her armour, and Fenris wonders if maybe he couldn't have incapacitated her in a less extreme manner. "If you're good with me, then I'm good with you," she says. "I'll just get Anders to take care of it. This wouldn't be the first time he's taken care of a broken limb. If anything, I think he's handled much worse than this."

Fenris nods and is about to say more when Artur groans. At once, he shifts his gaze to him, and he observes Artur's eyes open, this time for good, and slowly focus on the ceiling. While he does so, Sebastian staunches his head wound, and Fenris watches with more anxiety than he'd like to admit as Artur comes back to himself. Eventually, after Sebastian has staunched the wound and held another potion to Artur's mouth while Artur drank it down, Artur sits up and looks at him.

"Artur," Fenris says, then he finally realises that he's been calling the man by his first name all this time. He checks himself. "I mean… Hawke."

Artur looks at him and narrows his eyes, and Fenris can't tell from all the blood what it means. It could be a smile, or it could be a grimace. "I… I'm alive," he says. "Somehow. That was… that was nearly as bad as Arishok. Or maybe even worse… At least Danarius is dead…"

"You saw that? I thought you were out cold."

"I started waking up when Sebastian shot him and he went down on his knees," Artur says. "It's all fuzzy, but I did see you head over to him and pick him up and crush his heart. Good timing, too. I'm not sure how much longer I would have lasted."

Fenris cannot help himself. He presses a hand to Artur's chest, gently. "We'll get you to Anders," he says.

Artur nods, but then something off to the side draws his attention. His eyes narrow still further, and this time, Fenris is fairly sure it's with displeasure. "Oh, look. Seems like your sister has come scurrying back," he says, and the words ooze contempt. Fenris' stomach swoops for what feels like the tenth time in—Maker, has it only been an hour? It feels more like an eternity. "Do you want to deal with her?"

Fenris looks around, and indeed, there she is, at the other end of the tavern from them, well away from Danarius' body. Her shoulders are hunched, and she doesn't even try to catch his gaze. Fenris looks from her to Artur and Sebastian and Aveline and all the blood. All of this here—her doing as much as Danarius'. All of what Danarius would have done to him—her doing too. Once again, Fenris' muscles go tight with renewed rage, and he wordlessly gets up and storms over to her, scarcely aware of Sebastian helping Artur to his feet behind him.

Varania cringes away from him. "I had no choice, Leto," she says, and this time, the name feels more like an insult than a symbol of him beginning to reclaim whoever he was once. That is all ashes, and of courses, ashes leave a bitter taste. Again, Fenris' breathing comes heavily as he considers his crushed hopes and expectations and desires. He'd allowed himself to dream of having a sister in the same way that Artur has a brother, of loving her even, of learning from her who he was, what he had been. But she did not feel the same way, and so here they are, and as if to add insult to injury, she can only defend herself with the excuse everyone uses: _no choice_.

There is always a choice. That much he understands now. Even in slavery, there can be a choice, in how one chooses to respond and to survive. Only rarely is there truly no choice, and this is not—_cannot_ be—one of those occasions. Fenris looks balefully at her, and he wonders what he was thinking, dreaming that he could ever love her.

"Stop _calling_ me that," he snaps, advancing on her. He knows what he must do now. Some small part of him worries at the implications—does he want to add sororicide to the list of crimes he's committed, his own sister's body to the pile of corpses he's climbed over to get here, no matter what her sins? What if she genuinely had no choice?

"He was going to make me his apprentice. I would have been a magister," she protests, and suddenly, none of that really matters. Fenris stares at her in abject disbelief, thoughts whirling through his mind at such a fast pace that he can barely comprehend them. The Tevinter system at work again—everyone betraying each other for a chance at a little more power—his sister, a mage—another mage who used and abused him—the fact that she thought selling out her own brother was worth this—all to become a _magister_—and when she knew full well what sort of man Danarius was, what he would do—she must have done, for her letter said that she was once his slave, too—all of this—

"Are you _kidding_ me?" That is Artur's voice, and though it is weak and faint, the fury and betrayal there on his behalf give it a strength of its own. "You—"

"_You sold out your own brother to become a magister?!_" He's not even sure why he's surprised. A mage, a Tevinter… of course, she would do this to him. Elven magisters are rare, but they do exist, and the lure of power must be too much to resist even for _liberati_ such as herself. Of course it is. She is a mage. Artur is also a mage, some part of Fenris dimly remembers, and he has never sought power. Indeed, he has always rejected it. But he is not a _Tevinter_ mage.

He shouldn't be surprised, but still, Fenris can feel his heart constricting in the same way that he crushed Danarius'. He'd wanted this, wanted it so badly, staked so much on it when he had nothing left to lose… and this is all he gets in return. Why?

Varania doesn't even apologise. "You have no idea what we went through. What I've had to do since Mother died. This was my only chance," she says, still protesting, the words lancing through his heart again even as the wrath remains fixed on his face. She knows that he does not remember; he said as much in his letters to her that his memory was wiped. So why does she _blame him_ for this? And while what she says may be true—the _liberati_ do not live well in Tevinter, even as mages… surely suffering can only excuse so much. This… selling him out, sacrificing him to Danarius that she might become his _apprentice_… unforgiveable. She would climb over his broken body for her own gain. No, no amount of suffering can justify that.

_Any different from all the other bodies you've climbed over?_ Perhaps. And perhaps this is the Tevinter system at work again, and perhaps she was allowed to seek a better life, and perhaps Danarius was manipulating her—but Fenris has no way of knowing, and given what was at stake…

Unforgiveable. There can be only one price for this. It makes him feel almost sick, but to let her go would be worse. He avenged himself on Danarius; he will avenge himself on her. "And now you have no chance at all," he growls, and he takes another few steps towards Varania while she backs further away, almost into the wall. He becomes vaguely aware of Artur standing close at hand, watching impassively.

Varania does, too. "Please… don't do this," and she is begging, because of course she is. He can add cowardice to the list of her sins, it seems; apparently she cannot face the consequences of her actions with any dignity. She looks at Artur, eyes going wide. "Please tell him to stop!"

A moment's pause, then Artur speaks up. This time, there is no rage in his voice, only confusion. "He's your _brother_," he says. "He risked a great deal to get in contact with you, you know. Why? Why would you do this?"

Fenris hesitates. Why, indeed. As much as this hurts, as good an explanation as 'even _liberati_ cannot resist the lure of power and the glory of being a magister' is, part of him still can't comprehend it. She knew what sort of man Danarius was; the rumours of his cruelty, she had said in her letter, could be heard as far away from Minrathous as Ventus, and perhaps even further than that. And maybe he isn't the brother that she knew, but that doesn't change that he _is_ her brother. So why did she offer him up to Danarius, anyway? How could she have done so?

Varania looks at him, and her expression goes hard, as if his hesitation has given her a modicum of courage. When she speaks, her voice is steady and full of bitterness. "You say you didn't ask for this, but that's not true. You wanted it. You competed for it. When you won, you used the boon to have Mother and I freed," she says, and once again, the world falls out from under Fenris' feet, and the fury is all but swallowed up by the haze that once again resurges into his mind.

Wanted it? What does that mean? He wanted the markings? No, that is—anathema. Surely he could never have wanted—but how could he know? His memory was wiped. Perhaps his younger self foolishly thought it would be worth the cost. Perhaps _he_ wanted more power, like any other Tevinter, even though he was never a mage himself. If he wanted it enough to compete for it… Except, no, she said that he used the boon to have her and their mother freed. But that makes no sense, either. What boon, and why would he have them freed if he'd been a slave, with no real concept of freedom, all his life? Was he free once, in his earliest childhood? Did he remember that time? Or—It doesn't matter. _Wanted the markings, competed for them._ Did he know about the markings? Or did Danarius keep it hidden from the competitors? That sounds plausible, but even so… _Competed for them._

He can feel the rage slide off his face. Something like grief and utter misery takes it places. His breathing comes shallowly, not just from pain, and his mouth twists as he struggles to keep in control of himself. "Why are you _telling_ me this?" Fenris' voice shakes, and for just a moment, as he looks at Varania, he wishes that she would understand. Something in his gut tells him that she is older than he, the first of their parents' children, and some foolish part of him wants like burning for her to see his upset and back down, maybe calm him. But what good would that do after what she has done?

If she sees it, she doesn't respond; the look in her eyes remains hard and resentful. "Freedom was no boon," she says, and again his stomach swoops, again everything seems to fall out from under his feet. Surely freedom had to be a boon, even in Tevinter. _Surely._ There may be poverty and all manner of degradations and abuses, that is true, but surely it is better to live for yourself in poverty and want than to exist for someone else in slavery. Why would she—"I look on you now and I think you received the better end of the bargain."

Fenris makes a noise in his throat, something like a sob, and he shuts his eyes. He would speak, if he could, tell her that she has no idea what _he's_ been through—but she should have some idea, she _knew_ what sort of man Danarius was—but his throat is closing and the world is swirling around him and he's in so much pain and even breathing is a struggle. The better end? What could she have gone through that made what happened to him—the whippings, the Fog Warriors, the loss of his memory, the rapes, _everything_—the better end? Does she even know? But she _has_ to know, or at least suspect, surely. Surely she could not have been so blind to the kind of man Danarius was… _While she lived in poverty, I lived a life of luxury as his bodyguard._

Luxury. Right. Poor compensation for everything else that happened to him, and Varania has to suspect, has to know at least something, and still she thinks that he got the better end of the deal. He looks back at Danarius, recalls all that he did to him before and would have done to him had he succeeded here, and his pity vanishes. If she is so blind, or so self-centred, or so _anything_—then he has no sympathy for her. And it doesn't matter why, not now. He's done caring. Everything is ash, and all that's left is to sever this one last tie with the past he so desperately wants to leave behind. Why, he wonders, was he fool enough to think he could have this connection and keep running away from his past at the same time?

It doesn't matter.

Artur's voice interrupts his ruminations. "You ungrateful little—" and though his voice is even weaker, the disgust and anger there still give it its own kind of power. "He did all of that for you, suffered under that _man_ in ways I don't dare contemplate—and none of it was enough for you? You—you don't deserve what he did. You don't even deserve to live."

No. She doesn't.

This time, there's no fury, nothing but aching regret and the sort of misery that only having all one's hopes and expectations and their entire worldview crushed can bring. He turns back to Varania, and the pain of igniting the markings is lost in everything else. "I would have given you _everything_," he says, and it's no lie. He already gave her everything once; he would have done so again. Anything for family, anything to be loved, anything to have a life all his own. Instead, here he is, plunging his hand into her chest and ignoring her pained cries as he finds her heart and, as with Danarius, crushes it. Unlike with the slavers, it's not so easy to ignore the sounds, but even so, he can barely hear them over the knowledge of what he's lost, of what could have been but now never will be.

Varania goes limp; Fenris removes his hand and lets her fall. There's a momentary pause as all the pain and despair within him settles into simple numbness, as he wonders for the thousandth time what he was expecting. Then he remembers Artur, and he turns back to him to find him leaning on Sebastian. They stare at each other for a moment, then Fenris looks away.

"I thought discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging, but I was wrong." He should have known. He'd wanted a family, someone (else) to love him, a place he could fit in outside of Artur's group and outside of his—role—as Danarius' plaything. But he should have known better than to set his hopes so high. It was inevitable that he would fail to reach them. "Magic has tainted that, too. There is nothing for me to reclaim. I am alone." The words are rote, and he's not sure why he says them. At the moment, he doesn't feel much of anything, not even hatred. Numbness isn't a feeling.

At that moment, Artur steps away from Sebastian and towards him. He almost collapses as he does so, and Sebastian quickly reaches out to put a hand on his back and steady him. Fenris is about to say that he should be taking more care when Artur looks at him, silvery eyes filled with so much sympathy and sorrow on his behalf, and he says, "I'm here, Fenris."

That provokes something. A warmth, a glow, rather like that which he felt during their one night together three years ago, at least before the return and disappearance of his memories snuffed it out. He remembers that Artur agreed to come here with him so willingly, that he challenged Danarius on his behalf and almost died doing so—that Sebastian and Aveline, too, fought just as hard for him. _They_ have not betrayed him; perhaps he should remember that. But for the moment, Artur is the one who's most important, and this feeling in his chest is…

Fenris looks at him, ignoring the wetness under Artur's eyes, and he tries to put as much of what he feels now into that look as he can. _Te amo. I don't deserve this, Maker knows why you keep standing by me after everything, but thank you._ He wishes he could say it, but it's beyond him. Besides, part of him suspects that if he has to go through any more such emotions today, he will probably burst. Artur's brow furrows over his eyes, and he blinks, and Fenris knows that he is fighting back tears. Again, there is that glow. But as it did that night three years ago, the misery soon returns and snuffs it out, and he turns away.

"I feel unclean," he says, "like this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul. And now this." He looks back at Varania, slumped beneath him; his gaze focuses on the bloodied hole in her dress, and he doesn't dare lift it to her face. He's not sure what would happen if he did, what he would feel. But, enough. It's all over, and instead of being a victory, or at least something to bring him endless relief and the chance to let go at last, it's practically another defeat. Fenris finds that he doesn't want to look it in the eyes any longer.

"Let's go. I need to get out of here, and we all need to get to Anders."

"Couldn't agree more," Artur says, still more faintly than ever. Abruptly, he sways on his feet, and Sebastian—who looks almost equally pale—steps up to him, puts his arm around his waist, and then grabs Artur's arm and pulls it over his shoulder. Fenris and Aveline fall in line with them, and they turn towards the door and begin to wade through the sea of corpses and destroyed furniture and Maker only knows what else.

They have not got very far when the door opens and Varric and Isabela walk in. Varric is telling Isabela a joke, and they both laugh, but their laughter is almost immediately cut off as they turn around and see the devastation that has been wrought. Fenris sighs, ignores the twinge of pain in his broken ribs, and braces himself.

"Holy _shit_," Varric breathes, and even from here, Fenris can see the look of mingled awe, bewilderment, and horror on the dwarf's face.

The expression on Isabela's is nearly an exact match. "What in the—" She looks around wildly for a moment, then her eyes settle on them—covered in blood in Artur and Sebastian's cases, clearly injured in his and Aveline's—and almost pop out of her head. "Hawke!" she cries, sounding almost exasperated, as if what happened here was nothing more than a bar brawl that got ridiculously out of hand. "What have you been _doing?_"

Sebastian is the one to answer, by way of groaning, looking between Artur, Fenris, and Aveline, and saying, "Does _anyone_ really want to explain this?"

Artur responds almost instantly, "No, not really," and at the same moment, Aveline and Fenris shake their heads. Fenris looks away and avoids everyone's gaze, something like shame percolating in his gut, though he can't rightly say why. It was not his fault that Danarius was here, that they had to defend themselves and wrecked the tavern in the process. Even he knows this.

"Hawke!" Varric says chidingly. "You've almost destroyed the Hanged Man!"

"The upper level's still intact, I think," Artur says, and he looks at Sebastian, who nods in confirmation. "Besides, it was out of necessity. We were attacked. I'll…" He lets out a shaky breath, and Fenris looks back in time to see his knees sag while Sebastian struggles to keep him upright. "I'll explain later. Lost a… lost a lot of blood…" His head slumps back into his chest, and for a moment, Fenris worries that he has fainted.

Sebastian looks back at Varric and Isabela. "We can't stay. We all need medical attention. Will one of you go to Darktown and get Anders, please, and tell him to come up here?"

"Not sure it's wise to stay here," Aveline says. "Perhaps we can head back to Hightown?"

Sebastian groans faintly, and Fenris looks between him and Artur. His blood chills when he sees that Artur has _indeed_ fainted. "Are you sure you can handle the steps?" The long staircase between Hightown and Lowtown, always somewhat tiring after a long fight, might be almost impossible now, given all that's happened.

Sebastian considers for a moment. "I… think so," he says. "Not that it'll be easy. But I'd rather go back to Hightown than stay here or go to Darktown and then have to go all the way back to Hightown. Maybe Anders can meet us at Hawke's estate—it's closest to the entrance, and I'm sure Bodahn would let us in."

Fenris nods, as does Aveline. "That works," he says. He looks at Isabela. "Go get Anders, Isabela. Tell him to come to Hawke's estate directly. Say that he'll have broken bones and two cases of severe blood loss to deal with."

"Will do," Isabela says, and for once, she seems perfectly serious, as if she's just starting to grasp how grave the situation was and how much trouble they ended up in. As she darts out the door, Fenris moves over to Sebastian and Artur, puts his arm around the latter, and slings his other arm over his shoulders in the same way that Sebastian did; Sebastian, who also appears to be quite dizzy, shoots him a grateful look.

"I'll go and… talk to some people," Varric says, apparently still in disbelief over the state of the Hanged Man. "Get the ball rolling on repairs and cleaning up. Maker's truth, where _did_ all those corpses come from?"

Aveline shakes her head. "No idea, Varric. I'm not sure I want to know."

Varric sighs and runs his hands over his face. "Well, here's hoping they don't officially condemn the building and shut it down. Some of us have to live here."

"That would be funny if Hawke hadn't been bleeding to death on the floor not half an hour ago," Sebastian says, and there is a note of urgency in his voice. "We need to go, Varric."

"Shit, yeah, sorry," Varric says, stepping easily out of their way and letting them by. "At least you survived this… whatever this was. That's something, isn't it?"

Sebastian and Aveline and look at Fenris. Fenris just shrugs noncommittally. "Perhaps," he says. "We'll see you soon, Varric." With that, they head over to the door; Aveline pushes it open and allows the three of them through first. Once they are outside, she follows, closing the door behind them. Fenris blinks in the harsh light of the early afternoon sun, and again marvels—for want of a better word—at the fact that it hasn't even been two hours since they came down here. He looks at Sebastian, who nods once and readjusts his grip on the still-unconscious Artur. They move towards the steps and begin to ascend them, taking it slowly and cautiously; Fenris ignores the trail of blood that they leave behind them. Such things are common enough in Lowtown—even if a few passers-by are giving them curious looks as they go.

A short while later, they stand before the steps leading to Hightown, a much more difficult ascension than the steps outside the Hanged Man. Fenris braces himself, glances at Sebastian and Aveline and sees them nod, and then places his foot on the first step. With that, they begin the ascent, and the effort of doing so is almost sufficient distraction from the numbness and the grief and the crushed hopes and expectations and everything else still swirling around in Fenris' mind.

Free at last. But Maker knows he doesn't feel like it.


	4. Freedom

**Author's** **Note:** Final chapter! This got exceedingly long, apologies for that. Trigger warning for some discussion of mental health issues before we proceed. Otherwise, thank you all for bearing with me!

* * *

The better part of a week later, Fenris sits in his room and rubs his still-aching chest while Isabela talks to him—or, perhaps more accurately, _at_ him; he's not paying a great deal of attention to her. Though it is the height of summer, he shivers as though it were winter, and in his mind, he remains distant and numb, almost disconnected from himself. But enough time has passed that he is starting to think it shouldn't be this way. Whatever else may have happened, Danarius is dead; he killed him himself, and everyone survived, against the odds. He should be glad. So why is he so uncertain, so lost?

The answer's obvious enough, he supposes. Avenging himself on Danarius had at least given him a purpose. Now that he has fulfilled that purpose, now that he is free, he is unsure what to do next. Continuing to follow Artur around provides some certainty and structure, but he needs something more. A direction, another purpose, something new to live for. Finding his past might have been that new purpose, but with all that happened and with Varania dead, that avenue is now both fruitless and repugnant. The choice is his, that much he knows; there are always possibilities, but truly, it's like he's grappling around in the darkness for something that he doesn't know what it looks like, and that puts him on edge, makes him restless and uncomfortable. If he had even a selection to choose from…

"You know, you could go anywhere you like now," Isabela says, interrupting his ruminations, and Fenris looks up at her. She has always valued her freedom more than anything, but he wonders if there was ever a time when she faced the same choice as he—freedom before her and with no idea of what to do with it. He can't even say he's at a crossroads; that implies that there's a choice he can make. The beginning of the road, perhaps, and he just needs to take the first step down it. But it's a road he's paving himself, and he doesn't know where he wants it to take him.

He exhales. This is getting him nowhere, taking him around in circles. "I'm aware of that."

Isabela perks up, then, as if she's just had a bright idea. It is one she wastes no time in sharing. "Oh! You could become a raider! You could join my crew!"

For what it's worth, Fenris gives the idea its due consideration, if only because he has so few options available—that he knows of, anyway. Life on the sea? Not ideal; he prefers to have solid ground beneath his feet. Raiding? Well, he can't lay claim to any sort of moral superiority, would never dare try, but he likes to think there are better things he can do with his life—more moral things too, come to think of it. Besides, he's not sure he wants to work with a woman who claims to despise slavery but was perfectly willing to let Castillon get away with his slave-trading in order to get a new ship, he notes sourly. And there lies the most immediate problem.

"The crew of your non-existent ship?" he says. He aims for dryness, but his words come out about as sour as his thoughts. Isabela notices and in response, she huffs and rises from the bench. At the same moment, Artur appears in the doorway, and the sight of him alone lifts Fenris' mood a little. Artur has always been willing to hear him out and offer him help and advice even when he didn't ask for it; perhaps he can do the same here. If nothing else, it's good to see he's recovered enough to be walking around again.

"Well, with that attitude, you're never going anywhere, are you?" Isabela says, succeeding at dryness where he had failed. She leaves, sharing a look with Artur on the way out. Fenris shakes his head as Artur approaches him and takes Isabela's spot on the bench, and he guesses that no, Isabela has never been in this sort of situation. If she had, she might have understood what he's dealing with. Then again, Artur has also never been in this sort of situation, and probably he will understand perfectly well. Fenris decides to ponder that later and glances at the wound on Artur's forehead. He never got a chance to look at it in the Hanged Man due to all the blood, but it must have been terrible, for even a week later, it is an ugly thing, stretching from his temple to his eyebrow. The number of stitches there is only additional evidence of how bad it was.

Still, no need to call attention to it right now. "She doesn't understand," he says without preamble, as he always does. "Yes, I am free. Danarius is dead. Yet… it doesn't feel like it should."

In that moment, part of Fenris feels like he's whining. Is it not enough that he's free at last? Why should he complain that it 'does not feel like it should'? What will be enough to satisfy him? But the expression in Artur's eyes is sympathetic, as ever, and when he speaks, his tone is patient and understanding, the way it always is with him, though Maker knows that Fenris has sorely abused and taken advantage of that patience too many times to count. "You thought killing him would solve everything," he says, "but it doesn't."

A succinct summation if ever there was one. "I suppose not," he says, shifting in his seat. He keeps his gaze averted from Artur, largely to avoid looking at his forehead and feeling the pang of guilt that will accompany the sight. "I thought if I didn't need to run and fight to stay alive, I would finally be able to live as a free man does. But how is that? Whatever past I had died with my sister. I have nothing now—not even an enemy." No past beyond Danarius, and a future he can't be certain of. It is unsettling, to put it mildly. He glances at Artur then, pleading for his understanding—just about.

Artur grants it. "Maybe that just means there's nothing holding you back," he says.

There's something he's not considered. No past beyond Danarius, nor a future he can know for certain, that's true—but there's nothing to restrain him any longer. He doesn't need to live in constant fear of the hunters, to look over his back every five minutes, to jump at the slightest inexplicable noise, to sleep with his weapon next to his bed, to do any number of the things he's had to do to keep himself free. No longer does Fenris need to centre his life around his fear and his anger; now he can find something else to do. Maybe he doesn't know what that is yet, but even adjusting to freedom is a purpose, is it not? It may do for now.

"Hmm. An interesting thought." Fenris considers it for a moment longer, then decides to lay it aside for the time being and looks up at Artur again. Again, he is pleading for his understanding, almost. He knows that Artur has no more love for magic than he does despite being a mage himself, but surely even he must object to some of the things that Fenris has said about it—though he hasn't voiced these objections. "It's just… difficult to overlook the stain that magic has left on my life," he says. "If I seem bitter, it's not without cause." A pause, but Artur only nods, and Fenris soon realises that if he didn't protest three years ago when he expressed his wish for all the other mages to rot with Hadriana, then he won't protest now.

There are more important things to think about, anyway. Uncertain though it is, he has a future. "Perhaps it is time to move forward," he says. "I just don't know where that leads. Do you?"

"Nobody knows the future, Fenris," is Artur's immediate response, and as much as part of Fenris wishes that someone did, he also finds it reassuring that he's not alone in this. There are many others out there who have faced this confusion and lack of purpose and have overcome both. There's no reason he can't do the same. And, as the common wisdom in Tevinter goes, the path is as important as the destination. Looking at it the right way, this uncertainty could even be exciting, rather than frightening, now that nobody's after him. Because—

"The future of a slave is never uncertain," he says. "But I am no longer a slave. Perhaps it is time I remembered that." Artur's eyes crinkle, the only sign that anyone can ever see that he's smiling, and Fenris almost smiles too. Finally, there is relief. Yes, what happened was a catastrophe in every sense, but it's over, and he has the one thing he always wanted since his escape on Seheron. Whatever else may have happened, whatever Varania may have done, whatever he may have lost, he _has_ a future, and he has the power to choose what that future will be like. That is… something. More than something. He'll find the words for it later.

By this point, Artur is no longer smiling, or at least, that is what Fenris assumes. "You should. But…" He sighs and shifts where he sits, seeming uncomfortable. His eyes dart around the room, avoiding his gaze. "Not to rain on the parade, but I hope this doesn't come back to haunt you."

Fenris looks at him. "In what sense?"

"Danarius," Artur says. "Didn't he… have a family?"

Fenris' stomach sinks, and for a moment, he considers reproaching Artur for giving him that reminder. Not that blissful ignorance would have helped him in the long run, he supposes. "Ah. Yes, he had four sons." He remembers those boys well enough; the youngest of them was only a toddler when he received the markings. He cannot say he was well acquainted with them, as he belonged to their father, not to the family, and Danarius always kept him firmly by his side. They had little opportunity to treat him as their father did, and so he begrudges them nothing. "The elder three were at the Circle of Carastes when I escaped, the youngest was not much more than a child. Danarius… he was always good to them. What little love he had in him, he gave it to them. Strange though it sounds." Odd to think his master had any decent qualities, but to every villain his saving grace. It does not balance out everything else that Danarius did.

"Love of family," Artur says. "I understand."

"It will take them time to work out what has happened," Fenris continues. "When they do…" He sighs and supposes that a confrontation may well be inevitable. Considering it causes a spike of something like despair in his chest—will this _ever_ be over? But he shakes it quickly enough. Young Marcus Danarius may seek revenge as he did, or he may judge it to be not worth the cost; Fenris does not know enough of the man to have any confidence in his predictions. "I suppose we'll see. But for the moment, I… I am free."

The more he says it, the more the reality and weight of it all seize him, and a smile ghosts across his face. He has been lucky, he must never deny that; even despite everything else that has happened, he has had some good fortune.

"That is true," Artur says. "And if they come, I'll be there with you, as always."

That provokes a wider smile. Almost as much as knowing he is free, it is good—beyond good—to know that Artur will continue to support him no matter what happens. Artur has helped him through all this regardless of the cost to himself or however tense and awkward their relationship was after their one night together; it is gratifying to know that he can count on him still. He only wishes he had a way of adequately repaying Artur for everything, even though Artur would probably insist on there being no repayment.

Fenris supposes that he can start with an inquiry. He glances at the stitched wound on Artur's forehead again. "You will," he says. "But it occurs to me that I never asked how you were doing. How's that wound?"

Artur briefly presses his fingers to the wound. "I know it doesn't look like it, but it's healing just fine," he says. "I'm still rather… woozy… from all the blood I lost, but between Anders' healing magic and the potions I've been taking, he says I should be good to go in a few more days. Assuming I keep resting and do nothing strenuous."

He exhales in relief, and he knows that it must show on his face too. "Good," he says, then he swallows. This is rather difficult to confess. "When I… saw what was happening, what he did…" He trails off, unsure of how to phrase it and whether he even wants to admit that he almost gave in to Danarius to save Artur's life. Does Artur really need to know about that moment of weakness?

"I don't remember much," Artur says. "But I heard you shout. Scream, even. Last thing I remember before waking up again."

Fenris nods, recalling the fury and the terror that had erupted in him when he saw Artur lose consciousness from Danarius' manipulation of his blood. He swallows, braces himself—though he doesn't know for what—and says, "I don't know what I was fighting for in that moment. Myself, or you. That I… wouldn't lose you." Artur ducks his head, enough so that Fenris can't see his face, and he wonders if perhaps his words were too forward, too… something. But Artur says nothing and remains where he sits, so he supposes that he hasn't entirely overstepped the barrier between them.

Yet, for whatever reason, he keeps trying. The words come from his mouth almost without him thinking about it. "Then… there was another moment, not long before Sebastian shot him. He was… dragging me across the floor, using his magic. When I saw the state you were in…" He exhales and also looks down, cheeks burning with mild embarrassment. That Danarius also played a part in his moment of weakness does not clear Fenris of all blame for it. "I may have almost given up. You must understand that he was using blood magic to manipulate my mind and my emotions, but even so, I… I shouted for him to spare you. Begged, actually. He said he would if I came back to him. I was on the verge of giving in when Sebastian intervened." Fenris shudders but he forces himself to keep looking at Artur all the while.

Artur lifts his head again and their eyes meet. Fenris cannot tell what the expression in his eyes means, and he's not sure if that's a good sign or not. "Well, I…" Artur says after a moment. "Uh, I'm grateful for the gesture, Fenris, but I'm pleased it never came to that. How much of it was Danarius and how much of it was you?"

"I don't know," he says truthfully. The burn in his cheeks is becoming more intense by the second. "But it wasn't entirely him, I admit. I just didn't want to see you die. Not for me. Not for this."

Artur makes a noise like a laugh. "And I wouldn't have wanted to see you lose your freedom for me! Quite the impasse!" he says, and Fenris relaxes as it becomes clear that the man truly is grateful, but also understands why Fenris got to that point. "Thank the Maker for Sebastian."

"Indeed," Fenris says. "I doubt we would have won without him."

Artur nods and hums in agreement. There's a short, thoughtful pause, then he adds, "I remember what you said as I woke up. You all but begged me not to die. You even called me by my name."

"I did. I…" A much longer pause this time. Now he is standing at a crossroads, he thinks, only the fork has to do with something very different from his future. But this—whatever this is, this _impasse_ as Artur termed it—cannot go on any longer. It has been three years, they have never said a word about it, Artur has never been with anyone else, the future and his life are open before him, this might give him a new purpose, or at least a new something, and he has all but admitted to how much he still cares for Artur. Still… loves him, even. Perhaps it is time to face the elephant in the room.

Artur looks at him. "Fenris?"

Fenris looks down, doubting he'll be able to hold his gaze throughout this conversation and uncertain how to say what he needs to say. Even after three years, the ground between them is still so fragile. "I think it's… past time…" he begins, then he sighs. "We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago." It's phrased as neutrally as it can be, or at least it is by his judgement. He spares Artur a glance and sees him shift on the bench, the expression in his eyes distinctly uncomfortable. Not a good sign, but they've only just started.

"You didn't want to talk about it," Artur says after a moment. "Neither did I, come to think of it."

A grimace ghosts across his face. "And yet everyone kept talking about it," he says. Someway or another, Maker only knows how, everyone in their little group wound up finding out about what had happened even though Artur remained housebound for two weeks after that night and Fenris did not breathe a word of it to anyone. Isabela found out and (apparently) joked about it to Artur when he first came to the Hanged Man afterwards, Aveline found out and asked Artur how the pair of them dealt with the danger of their lives during her absurd courting of Donnic, Anders found out and needled him about it while Varric was trying to work out where the Carta attacks on Artur were coming from—in Artur's earshot, no less—Merrill found out and teased him about being in love (again, in Artur's earshot), _Varric_ found out and apparently tried to remind Artur, who needed no reminder, that he might well have 'issues', and also blurted out what had happened in front of _Carver_ while they were in the Vimmarks and mentioned Artur's lack of virginity to a man trying to kill them not half an hour later, much to Artur's anger, and to top it all off, even _Gamlen_ found out and made a few less than appropriate comments about it, or so Fenris has heard. The only one who did nothing with the information was Sebastian, and Fenris knows how grateful Artur was to him for it. Certainly, all the gossip and the teasing and everything didn't help his guilt over what had happened, and given how sensitive Artur was in the aftermath and how touchy he has always been about his privacy, it would have helped him even less. The way Artur's brow furrows now shows that their friends' utter disrespect for his privacy still pains him to this day.

"Don't remind me," he mutters. "I don't know how they found out, and I don't know which of them decided that they had the right to treat something so—so _humiliating_—to me in the way they did. Probably best I don't. And I'm sorry, Fenris, I know you had your reasons, but it _was_ humiliating. I can't pretend that it wasn't." Again, Fenris chances a look at him, but he can't read the expression in Artur's eyes now, and he's not sure he wants to.

He bows his head, acknowledging his wrongdoing. "I know," he says heavily. "I knew even then. I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me—I deserved no less. But it isn't better." He sighs again, then rises from his seat and steps towards Artur, trying to hold his gaze. He held his gaze that night as he explained that he was leaving and why, as he threw everything that Artur had given him back in his face by saying it never should have happened—hence Artur's humiliation—and he'll hold it now as he tries to give the apology he should have given a long time ago.

"That night… I remember your touch as if it were yesterday." Well, what sort of apology is that? But Artur only shakes his head, and his shoulders and torso briefly lift, and Fenris thinks he can hear a muffled puff of air—a chuckle, maybe. It's always so hard to tell with that blasted mask of his.

"Amateurish though it was…" Artur says as Fenris opens his mouth to continue, and Fenris can't help but chuckle as well. Truly, he thinks Artur sells himself too short. His touch _was_ clumsy and hesitant and inexpert; he was a virgin, after all. But a desire to respect his boundaries, to be gentle with him, to not do anything that might make him uncomfortable, had been the other reason Artur had been so cautious and maladroit, and Fenris appreciates that even now, for reasons he was not ready to share at the time. Besides, whatever his inexperience, whatever may have come after, it had been wonderful. He cannot deny that.

He says as much. "You give yourself too little credit," he tells him bluntly, and Artur screws his eyes shut and looks down, and Fenris can just see red seeping above the edges of his mask. He smiles for a moment before deciding that they should return to the topic at hand. "I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now." Skipping the apology and heading straight to the request for forgiveness, it seems, but never mind. He hopes that Artur understands.

Artur looks up at him again, and Fenris, for the thousandth time, tries to read the expression in his eyes. It is something he has become better at over the long years of their relationship, by necessity; he has no other way to tell what the man's feeling or thinking except from those eyes alone. (Luckily for him, his eyes are warm and grey and oversized and they turn to silver when he's happy, truly happy, and where is he going with this? Rhapsodising over a man's eyes is not like him.) He's not willing to say for certain, but he judges that the look is… appraising. Measuring him up. Measuring his sincerity? Understandable; no doubt Artur doesn't want to take such a risk again, not if it will end as badly as it did before.

"I need to understand why you left, Fenris," he says eventually, and Fenris inclines his head. A fair question.

"I've thought about the answer a thousand times," he admits. And every time, he always came back to the same answer, though he doesn't say that. He keeps speaking, and as he does, he shifts his gaze from side to side, avoiding Artur's. Again, it seems to Fenris that he's fumbling around in the dark, and it sets him on edge. That he could know for certain where this is going—it might make things so much easier. But he doesn't, so all he can do is push forward. "The pain, the memories it brought up… it was too much. I was a coward."

Unquestionably a coward. Yes, he had the right to leave, to know that he wasn't ready and act on it. But Artur also had the right to offer to help him—which he did, repeatedly, and Fenris was so much of a coward that he refused him, unable to think over the terror and the misery that were consuming him—and to be crushed and humiliated when Fenris rejected him in every way that mattered. And it wasn't as if the night didn't _mean_ anything… perhaps this will be his apology. To tell Artur what it meant to him, to make sure he knows that Fenris wasn't just using him. "If I could go back, I would stay," he says, and he abruptly has the sensation of standing on the edge of a cliff and being about to fall over it, "tell you how I felt."

"What would you have said?" Cautiously probing this time, but Fenris can't read anything more beyond that. He wishes he could. Still, he forces himself to look and catch the man's gaze. He looked Artur in the eye when he was being a coward and running out; he'll look him in the eye now as he says…

There are many things he could say, enough that he should grapple with them. But one stands out above all the rest, the thing he felt in the Hanged Man when Artur went down, the thing that spurred him on to beg Danarius for his life and almost give in to him. This he will tell him, and it will include everything else that he feels within it, _te amo_ included. "Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you," he says, and he keeps his voice steady and does not look away.

The red seeping above the edges of Artur's mask seems to become even more intense, but Fenris only sees this for a moment before Artur buries his face in his hands. "Oh you—_flatterer_," he says, and he sounds so distinctly choked up that it causes something of a lump to form in Fenris' throat. He swallows around it.

"Is it flattery if it's true?" he asks, and Artur looks up, and there seems to be a hint of humour in his eyes now, just visible beneath the wetness there.

"A question for the ages," Artur says. A momentary but still noticeable pause, and then he adds, "I—I understand. I'm not sure I always understood, but I do _now_."

And there it is—absolution, release, _forgiveness_, all sensations that Fenris is very unfamiliar with but wash over him like water in a pond and leave him cleansed. He lets out a soft sigh and briefly shuts his eyes as another weight lifts off his shoulders. A warmth begins somewhere in him, a kind of glow, and it rapidly expands until it has filled all of him and his fingers and toes are all but tingling with it. In that moment, he knows with perfect clarity that he doesn't just want to clear the air. He wants to try again.

He doesn't know what the future holds, no, but spending it with Artur, meeting whatever lies ahead with him at his side, as he has been since the day they met… that's something. There's a purpose there, a certainty, something for him to cling to as a barnacle does to rock. And not only that, but happiness as well. To spend his days with this man as his partner, his lover, his _equal_ in all things… if Artur will have it, then what could be better than that?

He tries to make it show on his face, and just to drive the message home, he steps closer—very close, much closer than Artur normally allows people to get to him—bends down, and brings their faces close together as well, enough so he could feel Artur's breath and kiss him if that mask weren't in the way. For the moment, Fenris takes pleasure in Artur's eyes going wide, and again, he holds his gaze as he says, "If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it _gladly_ at your side."

A promise, a pledge—_I'll be here for you, as you have always been here for me_—and as much of an admission of love as he can manage right now. Fenris half-expects that Artur will now pull off his mask and reveal his smiling face, that they will embrace and kiss and he'll feel so giddy that he'll have to sit down before it overwhelms him, as though he were a young girl with her first crush rather than a 30-something-year-old man. But Artur remains frozen where he sits, and there's a very different look in his eyes from joy, and enough time passes that the moment becomes awkward and Fenris gets the sense he's just overstepped far too many bounds—which he probably has. His gut clenches.

"With me?" Artur says eventually, and there's only disbelief and uncertainty in his voice—hardly a reassuring sign. The glow fades, deflating as though it never were, and Fenris can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He has overstepped himself, pressed beyond what he should have, he knows. The choice should have been left to Artur; he should have _asked_ if he wanted to try again instead of declaring himself; he should have—"You're certain? As a…?"

Fenris swallows and fights to quash his embarrassment. "Yes. Don't you want… I mean, _do_ you want…?" He doesn't need to finish the question.

Luckily for him, Artur answers immediately, but there is no joy or affirmation in what he has to say, nor in his eyes. "More than anything," he says, but before Fenris can feel that glow again, he adds, "But… I can't stop thinking about… about Danarius, what he said…" So that's what this is about. Fenris briefly sucks his lip between his teeth. In all the insanity of what happened, he'd half-forgotten Danarius' cruel words, comparing Artur to himself, no doubt as part of an attempt to unnerve and frighten the both of them. It seems to have worked a little too well on Artur. "I know what he pointed out was skin-deep at best, but—"

Before he can stop himself, Fenris extends his hand and gently lays it on Artur's chest, stopping the flow of words. "You aren't him. If you were, you wouldn't be here." He means it as an odd kind of death threat, and he wants to kick himself for it. Death threats, even in the guise of reassurance, are not how one goes about pursuing what he's pursuing. Still, he means what he says. If Artur had ever shown any signs of being like Danarius, probably Fenris would have killed him. Or tried to, anyway.

For a moment, Artur's eyes crinkle again, and Fenris supposes that he must be smiling as he pulls back and stands up straight again. At least he takes the point, however clumsily delivered it may have been. Or maybe he doesn't, for if he does, that doesn't stop him from asking, "Was there ever a moment when you thought… when the coincidences…"

"No," he says, and it is true. Yes, seeing Artur perform lightning magic—the magic Danarius himself favoured, alongside entropy and blood magic—in the mansion all those years ago had been alarming, and Fenris had kept a sharp eye out for any signs of similarities between the two for months. But despite the skin-deep coincidences, he had never found a single one. The differences in how the two men treat magic and those lesser than themselves are the important thing, not any shallow similarities such as their grey eyes and talent for lightning magic. He elaborates. "I looked at Danarius and I saw the man who made me like this for his own gain. The worst of everything mages have to offer. I look at you, and I see the man prepared to do anything for me, to no benefit of his own. And not just me, but everyone. I've never seen anyone who would fight so hard for others and expect nothing in return. Danarius… you and he are so far apart that it's not even worth considering." Part of him wonders that it needs to be said—they would never have got so close if Artur had borne any similarities to Danarius, but then he remembers how little Artur thinks of himself, and it makes sense. At the least, he should appreciate the concern.

"That's… something, I guess," Artur says, still sounding uncertain. "But my being a mage? Does that not concern you?"

Again, Fenris answers instantly. "It didn't three years ago, and it doesn't now. Why are you asking?" Again, his concern is understandable, given all that Fenris has ever said about mages, all he has ever experienced at their hands, but he had hoped that Artur would have realised that if he was willing to sleep with him three years ago, then his magic has never been a barrier to them.

Artur breaks his gaze at last, looking off to the side. "You saw how I was after Mother died," he says lowly, and Fenris nods, chest constricting as he remembers that time. It had been terrible to witness, and no doubt even worse to endure. "I lost my head. I came close, so close, to being possessed and becoming an abomination. The demons plagued me to a degree you can't imagine. When I said I was considering Tranquillity… it was for the safety of everyone around me as much as it was so that I would no longer have to feel anything. And maybe I got better, but I nearly lost that fight, and I still _am_ fighting. I'm just the same as any other mage, Fenris—prone to temptation and forever at risk of falling prey to it. I'm no stronger than any of the rest. Shouldn't that bother you?"

Ah. Yes, that makes sense. Strong, disciplined mage or not, Artur _is_ still a mage, and his strength and discipline do not make him immune to the temptations of demons. Is this what Fenris wants to be with: another mage, vulnerable to the lure of power as they all are, no matter how hard he tries to fight it? But he knows Artur, knows him well; he has faith that he can always resist the demons and the call of blood magic. Again, he thinks the man isn't giving himself enough credit. How weak does he think he is, truly?

He opts to be blunt. "If you were as weak as you claim," Fenris says, "you'd have been possessed a long time ago. Yes, you nearly lost the fight that time, and yes, your behaviour reminded me of so many other mages I've seen. But you _didn't_ give in. You fought all that time, and you got better. You do yourself a disservice by denying that."

Artur shrugs, evidently still disbelieving. His caution and discipline and high standards are all to the good, but Fenris wonders what it will take to get it through the man's skull that he is so much stronger than he gives himself credit for. Surely there can be no harm, no risk, in acknowledging this strength. "I had to get Sebastian to help me. I couldn't do it on my own. That's the problem," he says, and Fenris can't help but raise an eyebrow. How can he not see the hypocrisy in that? He must support himself on his own, but there is no problem with his friends asking him for help?

"Is asking for help such a sin?" Fenris asks him pointedly, and Artur ducks his head as if acknowledging the incongruence. "When Sebastian extended his hand to you, you took it and said, 'My choice.' He did not force you to go. You agreed to go because you knew you needed help. There's no shame in asking for that. _You_ taught me as much."

Artur runs a hand through his hair, still distinctly uncomfortable. "Perhaps, but I should have got better on my own. I shouldn't have become so weak that I needed outside help to not become possessed. When things are at their worst, you need to know that you can rely on yourself and not just other people. Three years ago, I failed at that. Don't you see?"

Fenris shakes his head. "Failed? You always _fought it_. Even at your worst. You went without sleep to avoid temptation, you screamed for the voices to stop, you acknowledged how tempted you were in the same breath as saying that you knew you couldn't let it happen. And as you said, you declared your intention to enter the Circle and possibly become Tranquil with everyone's safety in mind. You fought it, Hawke, and with his help, you overcame it. I would hardly call that a failure." It makes his heart clench, that this man who has done so much for him and for everyone else thinks so little of himself that he classes falling apart in his grief for his mother and having to get outside help—from his closest friend, no less—as a failure. Does he truly think nothing of himself?

_Decidedly this will kill him one day,_ Fenris thinks with a shudder. _One day, he will fail to live up to these impossible standards of his, and it will tear him apart. Or lead him to tear himself apart. It is inevitable._ Or at least, it is inevitable if he—or _someone_—does nothing to stop him. Perhaps that can be repayment—supporting Artur as he has supported him, stopping from destroying himself when the weight of everything, most of all his own standards, gets too much for him. But that is a thought for later.

For the moment, Artur is bowing his head, and Fenris watches him and wonders if, after all they've come through, it will be Artur's self-hatred that keeps them apart. "Maybe," he says. "But it's never gone away. It's always been there. Always will be. Fenris, I…" He looks up, and his silvery eyes are still wet and are shining with an emotion he can't name but that makes his chest constrict, anyway. "I still want you… I _love_ you… but you shouldn't… you deserve better than this. Someone who's not… broken, who's not always at risk of possession or becoming a blood mage or—"

No. It's not for Artur to say what he does or doesn't deserve. Fenris shakes his head, and Artur wisely jams his mouth shut. "I want _you_," he says firmly. "I would not be offering this if I did not think you were worth it. You—you're the best man I've ever known, and the strongest. Not just the strongest mage, but the strongest man. I mean it."

But Artur only laughs, and his laugh is horribly bitter. His continued disbelief takes on a different edge this time. Fenris sighs and realises that it's time for a different tactic, a tactic he can't say he's any good at. It seems he'll only be able to convince Artur if he pours out his heart, and that's not something he's used to doing. But for what could happen if it works—the risk seems to be well worth the reward. He considers his words and his feelings for a moment, tries to organise them as best he can, and then he looks back at Artur and arrests his gaze. Artur knows better than to look away from him now, it seems.

"Listen to me, _Artur_," he says, and it is easy to pour all his emotions into those four words, and beyond. Naturally, the use of his first name catches Artur's eye, and this time, when Fenris tries to judge the expression there, he measures it as being wary, but willing to hear what he has to say. It is something. Briefly, he considers getting in his face again, but he ultimately discards the idea. Invading Artur's personal space will not help. "Does a weak man get up every day for seven years and keep fighting? Does a weak man struggle against possession for more than half his life and never lose the battle no matter how close he comes to doing so? Does a weak man fight for and stand by his associates, even those he doesn't think deserve it, regardless of whatever may have been hurled at him? Does a weak man agree to duel the Arishok despite the danger posed to him, to protect this city and a woman he doesn't even call a friend? And—"

He's only just getting started, and his tone grows ever fiercer as he speaks, but at this moment, Artur's voice cuts through his like a knife through butter, interrupting and again leaving Fenris with the rather awkward sensation of having had the rug pulled out from under his feet. "Did I?" Artur asks quietly, and Fenris' heart sinks because he doesn't need to measure the expression in the man's eyes when the tone of his voice alone tells him that Artur is _still_ unconvinced. What will it take, if not this, he wonders, but he is distracted when Artur keeps speaking. "I fought him to die," he says. "I wanted to die. I didn't care about Kirkwall, and I wanted Isabela gone without having to betray her. I wanted to be _dead_. That's why, Fenris. You think too highly of me."

Fenris stares at him.

That… yes, that makes sense. Even at the time, Fenris had wondered at Artur being willing to duel the Arishok when he had never made a secret of his hatred for Kirkwall or his contempt for Isabela. He had been furious with her for stealing the Tome, and when she had returned, he had greeted her by upbraiding her for her betrayal. Yet, five minutes later, he had agreed to duel the Arishok for her. It made no sense to him, and even attributing his actions to selflessness had never seemed an adequate explanation. Now he knows the truth. _He wanted to die. He couldn't kill himself directly because that is a sin in the Maker's eyes—yet going into such a thing hoping to die is also a sin—and he didn't care about Isabela. Wanted to die, wanted to see her punished without betraying her… No doubt what happened to his mother and the crisis all pushed him past his limits. Perhaps if he had been in a healthier state of mind…_

"It was wrong of me, I know," Artur says eventually, and Fenris looks at him again and knows at once that his tone is sincere. That, at least, settles the chill percolating in his gut. "I have done my best to atone for it, have confessed and tried to make penance for it in the eyes of the Maker. But still it was wrong. Is this what you want?"

Fenris considers him for a moment. A man who tried to sell out an associate by failing to save her, hoping to die in the process? A terrible act, to be sure. But Artur was not in his right mind at the time; his mother hadn't even been dead a month, and he was still coming out of the terrible mental breakdown he had suffered and was planning to exile himself to the Circle of Magi in Ferelden. Besides, he failed at the crime, and Fenris can readily believe that he did penance. Artur is obsessed with making amends for even the smallest of his mistakes; his impossibly high moral standards and his faith demand it of him. It is unquestionable that he would make penance for this. Still, is this what he wants? What if despair had driven Artur to try to do the same to him?

_He did not. Hypotheticals are useless here,_ he reminds himself, and he thinks. He hits the answer soon enough. He will not have a morally perfect man; no such man exists, even if Artur tries with all his might to be one. He would rather have a man who can admit to his failings and do his best to make up for them; such men are exceedingly rare. Yes, perhaps Artur's attempted betrayal was a terrible failing, but that he has tried to make up for it? That is unquestionably good. It should not be discounted.

"A man who owns up to his mistakes and wrongdoings and tries to atone for them? Such a man is a rarity," he says, and Artur's brow lifts in continued disbelief. By this point, Fenris would find his incredulity exasperating more than anything else, but in this instance, he supposes that it is justifiable. If Artur had not admitted to trying to do penance for his wrongdoing and if Fenris had the moral high ground, he would find it difficult to forgive him, too. As it is… "And if you can forgive me what I said to you that night—I can forgive you your own crime. Especially when you failed at it." Briefly, he wonders if Isabela knows what Artur almost did, for telling, apologising, and making it up to her would surely complete Artur's atonement, but that is a discussion for later. For now, Artur chokes on a laugh, and Fenris' mouth twitches.

Another point occurs to him, and he wastes no time in giving it voice. "This only proves my point, anyway," Fenris says. "Does a weak man keep getting up and fighting regardless of what the day brings, or the next day, or the day after that? When he does wrong, does he admit to it and try to atone for it? I've seen plenty of weak men, and none of them have ever done those things. You, on the other hand…"

"Fenris—"

No, he won't be interrupted again. "That's what you _do_, Artur," Fenris says over the other man's voice. "You have fought and struggled all your life, and that gives you strength, unquestionably so. More strength than you will attribute to yourself, evidently. Besides, no matter how much you struggle…"

He has another word now, one that might serve his purposes much better than 'love' or 'future' or anything like that. But here, Fenris turns away and steps back, returning to his seat but not sitting down again. He has declared himself; now he will give Artur room to decide what he wants to do. He turns back to Artur, tries again to put all of what he feels into his face, into his eyes; he sees that Artur's eyes are still wet, and he lets the suspense hold for a moment before he comes out with it. If this does not convince Artur that he's worth the risk, then nothing will.

"I trust you. I trust you completely."

As he had half-expected, Artur does something of a double-take, and his oversized eyes go even wider as he stares at Fenris. Fenris briefly sucks his teeth to keep himself from smirking. The silence that follows is longer than the one just before, and even from here, Fenris can see Artur processing what he's just said, grasping what it means. Love and a future are fine, but there's nothing else quite like _trust_, is there? That is something that Fenris can attest to himself. He trusted nobody before, but he does now, and his life is so much the richer for it. If Artur can see that…

"You… trust me?" Artur says shakily, _still_ disbelieving, but this time, there's finally an edge of hope and something approaching happiness there, and Fenris allows himself to smile, if only for a moment. He keeps holding Artur's gaze.

"Completely," he repeats. "With everything I have." And so much more, but there's no need to go overboard. A few careful words are more likely to do the trick, he suspects, rather than more of a verbal torrent poured on top of the last. Granted, the fact that Fenris was willing to unleash such a torrent at all when he's usually so to the point should also have clued Artur into how much he _wants_ this, but he'll do what it takes. Judging by the way Artur's brow furrows and the look that comes into his eyes, he may finally be making headway.

Still another silence follows, but Fenris keeps watching, keeps observing the tiny shifts and changes that could mean—well, anything. His gut roils with something like nervousness and a desperate hope that he has not staked everything and poured out his heart for nothing. (To be sure, if that were the case, then he might get the chance to feel what he made Artur feel three years ago, but he has to hope for something, and it would be nice if _something_ went his way for a change.) Eventually, Artur catches his gaze again, and there's an expression in his eyes that Fenris can read easily even from here, but he finds that he doesn't want to read it. It could be joy, or it could be something else entirely.

"I… thank you," Artur says, almost breathes, and Fenris' heart—appropriately—leaps into his throat. "Those… aren't words I've ever said to myself."

What a _ridiculous_ man, he thinks, but there's nothing but fondness in the thought. He shakes his head and says, "Then perhaps you should _start_." Perhaps if he does so, he'll be much happier for it; Fenris knows how miserable Artur can get in his mansion, how miserable he has been throughout all the years he's been in Kirkwall. Perhaps these words will help him. Perhaps this is what he needs, just as this is what Fenris wants. He's willing to try.

Artur makes another noise, a choking sort of sound, but before Fenris can determine what it means, one of his gloved hands comes up to his mask, and his fingers curl and grasp the edge. There's a moment of hesitation, in which Fenris' heart does another leap, this time into his mouth, and he can't quite stop his eyes from going wide. This, he knows, will be his answer. And this time, it will be more meaningful. Three years ago, he slammed Artur into a wall, causing Artur's hand to fall from his unmasked face and revealing the scars before Artur was ready to show them to him. This time, it will be Artur's choice, and that will make all the difference. This time, Artur tugs the mask down, slowly and carefully, showing a scarred face that has changed little in the past three years, showing a slightly oversized nose and thin lips and a strong jaw much like Carver's and noticeable cheekbones, and it's not a handsome face, but it's _his_ face, and Fenris knows well how privileged he is to see it. His mouth twitches again, only a hint of the warmth that's more like a fire growing inside him, making his fingers tingle, filling him with a desperate _need_ to touch and take and hold, and he's not sure what restrains him from doing so right there.

_Yes._

Artur rests the mask beneath his chin and stands up, his movements so slow that it's almost agonising, but Fenris will not push him any more than he knows Artur would push him. Patience is a virtue, as they say. Artur takes a step forward, then stops; Fenris watches, then shifts his gaze back to his face, his _entire_ face. For a moment, there is a hint of lingering incredulity that remains in his eyes and causes his brow to furrow again. But then the look clears, and a smile as warm and broad as any he's ever seen crosses his face, contorting the lightning-branch scars in an interesting way, and his eyes light up and take on the appearance of silver, and scars or no, he looks _incredible_, and he reaches him in a few quick strides and put his hands on Fenris' waist, and Fenris turns his head up to kiss him, but his lips only brush against Artur's hair as they wrap their arms around and pull each other into the other's chest. In the next instant, Artur has buried his face in his shoulder and is holding him so tightly that pain flares up in his ribs, but he doesn't bother protesting, only lets out a breathy laugh and returns the embrace with equal force.

Maker only knows how long they remain that way, clinging onto each other so tightly that not even air could get between them, Artur half-hanging off him even though he's taller than Fenris. Through his armour and Artur's complicated, loose robes, Fenris can feel him shuddering, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, and only a passing glance at his face is enough to reassure him that Artur is not crying—yet. Though truth be told, he's hardly in any position to judge; his own breathing is becoming uneven as well, and he _feels_ so much, enough so he might indeed have to sit down soon just to get a grip on it all. Absolution, forgiveness, love, a _future_ to be had… He remembers he thought that night three years ago that happiness is not for one such as him. Clearly, he was wrong, as he was about many other things. _This_ is worth aspiring for, if nothing else.

He also still feels the need to touch and to take like burning, and the longer this goes on, the worse it gets; he's not hard _yet_, but if this keeps up, he may well be soon, and all this without having so much as kissed the man. Quite an accomplishment, he supposes. He exhales and pulls back just slightly to look at Artur, and he finds himself almost looking down on the man, Artur having turned his face to look up at him while still resting his head on his shoulder. That huge smile is still there, but there's now a note of distinct self-satisfaction in it, too—_oh, _now_ he starts smirking_—and Fenris huffs. Any longer and he'll—

"We've waited long enough," he says, somehow keeping his burgeoning impatience out of his voice. More than long enough, if anything. "How much longer…?" For just a moment, words, terms of endearment are on the tip of his tongue, but Fenris checks himself in time. They may be best delivered later.

Artur seems to notice his impatience. His grin only widens as he lifts his head from his shoulder. "I was _getting there_, you—" he protests, and Fenris chuckles, moves his hand up to and tangles it in his hair, and pulls Artur in before he can finish his sentence. He almost misses his mouth and has to stand up on his toes, and when their lips _finally_ touch, they're both every bit as clumsy as they were three years ago, pushing, pulling, chasing after something that Fenris can't quite name; their noses and teeth knock and Artur's movements are as uncertain as they are eager. But it _feels_ like so much, like love and trust and the barriers they put up between each other so long ago finally coming down for good and so many other things he can't be bothered to name and when the first rush of heat and desire and impatience has passed, they slow down and they focus. By the time they pull away from each other and rest their foreheads together, Fenris' tongue darting out to collect the saliva that hangs between their mouths so briefly, Artur's lips are red and swollen, and his grin is—impossibly—even wider.

Fenris runs his hand down his chest, towards his belt. He _wants_. He can feel his cock now, and probably Artur can feel it too, even through his robes. But his hand has only just got to the belt when Artur grabs his wrist; Fenris looks up at him, and he shakes his head. His smile is smaller now, apologetic, but also amused. "As tempting as that is," he says, "I'm fairly sure that counts as a strenuous activity, yes? I was told no strenuous activities for another few days."

Fenris' response is to glare at him and let out a small string of increasingly creative Tevene swearwords, at which Artur only laughs. "There's more to it than _penetration_, Artur," he says with as much patience and dignity as he can muster, and Artur only laughs harder and buries his face in his chest. "I can find other ways of fucking you."

Artur looks up at him, grinning again, but observing him, Fenris notes that his face is… pale. Much more so than it should be, considering what they've just been doing. "Blood doesn't replace itself instantly, even with magic and potions," he reminds him. "I'm actually getting rather dizzy right about now. Do you want me fainting in your bed because my blood's all gone from my head to my cock?"

"That's not how it works," Fenris says, as though he were talking to a child, but all the same, he knows that Artur has a point. Trying to have sex while he's still rather short of blood _probably_ isn't the best idea, however impatient Fenris may be, and to be frank, he's not even sure if Artur can get it up right now. Just to check, he peers down between them, to where his own cock has put in an appearance; he can see no such thing for Artur.

"There's nothing to see," Artur admits, rather embarrassedly, guessing at what he's doing. "I can't, uh, really _feel_ anything right now, I'm sorry. Not that you're not a good kisser—you're _great_—I mean it—but—I can't feel—" Right. There's the other part. Never mind him fainting because his blood's gone to his cock—is his blood even _going_ to his cock at all? Can it?

Fenris presses his hand to his chest again, stopping him. "That's all right," he says, and he does his best to shake off his impatience. "I suppose a few more days won't hurt, not after three years."

Artur lifts his head from his chest and looks Fenris in the eye again, still grinning. "Exactly," he says. "Nobody said I couldn't _kiss_ you, however."

A smirk crosses his face. "_That_ will do for now," he says, while thinking that when Artur is ready, they'll have even more catching up to do than they have already. Truly, he has no idea what he's in for—though really, Fenris supposes as he tangles his hand in Artur's hair again and pulls him back in, neither does he. There'll be much to do in the coming days, boundaries to set and things to discuss and probably confessions to make and Maker only knows what else—but he knows as their lips brush against each other, softer now, steadier, that it will be well worth the risk, well worth the effort it took to get here.

Perhaps he doesn't know what the future holds, or where his freedom will lead him—but if he can go there with Artur, if he can spend it with the man he loves and _trusts_ so much, then it's a start. This here, this is only the first step on the road, which he's finally taken. And the next step, Fenris is keen to take.


End file.
